The Registry Office
by SixThings
Summary: Lizabeth Bennet is the only child of helicopter parents. She works in a county recording office where she meets a cross-section of people, including movie-producer, William Darcy. At first he is rude, but their paths keep crossing since he's in town helping family. All characters appear, but not necessarily in same 'strength' or essence as original. Updates M/Th.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've broken up the Bennet family and made Elizabeth an only child. (now _Lizabeth_ because Mrs. Bennet wants her precious daughter to have a more unique name). Jane, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia still have strong roles. I also broke up the Bingley family, so Charles and Caroline aren't brother and sister, though mostly appear in the same scenes. Darcy is here exuding arrogance. Charlotte is Charlene (I knew few modern Charlottes and opted to change her name). I have also included all the other characters, though some minor ones have been elevated to having more significant roles as I needed a few OCs to help the plot along. — SixThings

* * *

VOLUME 1: SHE

The clock read 7:59 a.m. Lizabeth grabbed the keys off of her desk and moved down the length of the counter towards the front door. She made her way around its curve and let herself in and out of the little counter-door at the end. The county clerk office's front door didn't merely unlock by unlatching a deadbolt; the keys also disarmed the alarm system.

Douglas Morris was waiting outside to get in, as usual. Doug was a local realtor (among other things); real estate didn't pay the bills. He came to the county offices most mornings to access its services. Usually, he poked around on the county's public computer.

The county recording office had a computer terminal for citizens to use for property searches. It was available for them to see if there were liens on their house (circumventing having to hire someone). But Lizabeth had long suspected that Doug had figured out how to get past the security software on the computer and that he could get out to the internet and used it for other purposes. He told her that he had an office, and yet he was there every morning, just like Lizabeth was there every morning.

Judge Metcalfe, the only other county office employee at that site, was not as prompt as Lizabeth and didn't show up until about 8:30 a.m. The judge had his own key since he had a private door. Troy Metcalfe was also a salaried employee, not an hourly employee like she was. He often said he worked through lunch while Lizabeth had to dutifully clock in and out for her lunch periods.

Not that Lizabeth Bennet resented working with the Judge. He was fair-minded and pleasant. In the seven months that she had been in Merton, the work had been challenging, and she enjoyed coming on board at a government office and learning the ropes. When she had pursued a library degree, this hadn't been the job she had envisioned: working in a government records office. Though _records_ was information of a sort (and related to her degree). But coming to Merton had been a first step in getting out from underneath her parents' thumbs.

She unlocked the door and pulled it back a few inches. Doug pushed it open farther, then held the door for her. "Good morning, Lizabeth."

"Good morning, Doug." She left him to whatever it was that he did every morning. He had a cup of coffee, and something clutched in a bag from the café just up the street. He plopped down in front of the terminal.

"Hey! It's not booting," he called out just as she reached the little counter door.

"Really? Best to just restart it," she recommended. "I wish I could leave it on overnight. Let me know when it asks for a password."

"Can't you _share_ the password?" Doug grinned, pulling on his realtor confidence as he leaned back in the chair.

"You know I can't," she answered. Lizabeth wondered how long it would take to reboot and whether she should go back to her desk, only to have Doug call her back. Because they dealt with sensitive data, the office had been redesigned when some of the civic buildings had been retrofitted and modernized a dozen or so years ago by installing a long continuous counter to prevent a random person walking in and getting at personal information on the work computers or in the file cabinets in the work area.

"What are you working on this morning?" she asked.

"Property searches," he said, teasing. "Actually though, I don't know if you heard that Catherine Deburg is selling off a huge parcel of land? That one west of Field Avenue?"

"I hadn't," Lizabeth replied.

"Yeah, the city council approved it last month," Doug explained. "They're going to allow vanity lots rather than approving standard residential lots."

"Vanity lots?"

"They're cutting the land up into three-acre parcels. They're trying to lure rich Silicon Valley tech people to live out here. With the Spectre Boys in town, the city council has had a taste of money." She made an encouraging sound. "I think the idea is there're people who are disgusted with the commute, housing prices, and the lousy schools in Silicon Valley. They're trying to make Merton a nice place to live as a lure as those tech people haven't discovered the secret of youth _yet_," said Doug.

"I've heard about that," she murmured.

"I'm _assuming_ they're aging and getting married or at least doing things like having relationships or kids. And they're realizing that working sixteen-hour days isn't the _only_ thing in life. Anyway, the council is trying to woo them with big luxury homes, which would mean an increase in property taxes for the city." He sipped from his cup.

"_And_ the county."

Doug nodded then looked at the screen. "Yeah. I think it's ready for your magic password."

"Look away," she cautioned and logged the terminal onto the county-wide system.

The John Muir County Records Office was an information hub that it dealt with information for the city of Merton (and surrounding area), which was the principal city in what was a rural county. The office handled a lot of paperwork, such as marriage certificates, birth, and death certificates. A person could register to vote without waiting for a registration drive (or someone standing outside of a store when burdened with grocery bags). It was also where people applied for business licenses or tax exemptions for reasons such as disabilities or if a business was a non-profit or a church.

In some ways, Lizabeth was surprised that she had landed there. A year ago, she had finished a degree in library science and thought she would work in a proper library. But the clerk job was a great fit: processing and recording information. It also fit in another, odd way. It was a fit for someone who was a little gossipy or curious. Not that Lizabeth wanted to admit that she was—that was her mother. Mrs. Bennet was the ultimate, interfering, infuriating, meddlesome mother. But Lizabeth was similar to her mother and liked to _know_ things, even if she didn't gossip about them. (Though sometimes she speculated that her mother wished she would share information she came across at work.)

Most of Dawn Bennet's prying focused on her only daughter. Dawn needed to know what was going on in Lizabeth's life in intimate detail. That meant that there had been a great deal of conflict once Lizabeth had hit her teenage years. Mrs. Bennet was the epitome of a helicopter parent. Lizabeth could never be more than five minutes late without accounting, practically minute by minute, for where she had been when she was out. The same held for her four years of college. She had gone to a local state school (cheaper, her father's argument). While it had saved on money, it was more convenient to live at home and have home-cooked meals (her mother's argument). But Lizabeth never was able to break free from her parents.

When she decided to pursue a graduate degree, she _had_ pushed to move out of the house. But as it was 'only' a two-hour drive to the school that offered her graduate program, she had been shot down. At the age of twenty-four, this only child had never been on her own before she practically stole away in the night when the job at the county clerk's office became available.

It came to her notice because her uncle and aunt lived in Merton. Aunt Chrissie was one person to whom Lizabeth could regularly text or email about her difficulties at home. And though Dawn Bennet objected, she wasn't hyperventilatingly hysterical about the move. It wasn't as if Lizabeth had decided to do something wild—like move to Los Angeles.

At the recording office, there were _always_ tasks to be done: daily tasks, weekly tasks, monthly tasks, quarterly tasks, and yearly tasks. She only needed to consult a binder that had labeled tabs with sections that spelled out what she needed to do every day. The previous clerk had been _very_ into procedures.

There had been little training as the job had been vacant for two months before she filled it. Lizabeth often winged her way through her days. While Judge Metcalfe answered questions, he wasn't one for hands-on training. But she was happy with the job.

Such a situation was one which Lizabeth enjoyed, and it was satisfying not to have someone looking over her shoulder and telling her how to do something or how _not_ to do something. (Or whether she was right or wrong.) Most of her life, whatever she did, she was told she was doing it wrong, and her mother instructed her how to do it…_correctly_.

* * *

Lizabeth chose a mindless task that morning: scanning the old property map books. They were enormous and cumbersome. Not all of the historical information about the county was available online as often as Doug Morris sat at the computer day in and day out. She spent a significant amount of her time converting dusty old map books into electronic files and adding to the county's collection of documents.

She wasn't thinking of any particular topic as she went about her job, though she did have a few plans and ideas that swirled about in her brain. She usually met a friend once a week for lunch, and she and Ed had dinner plans on Friday. But what Doug had mentioned about the land west of Field Avenue being up for sale had intrigued her.

The Deburg family had been a fixture in the area for years. Judge Lewis Deburg had died about two years before she had moved to town. People still talked about the lavish funeral that had taken place in his honor. There had been a huge procession through the town which had required streets to be blocked off. Extra police had to be on duty, something the family had been willing to pay for. Lizabeth's Uncle Ned hadn't thought much of Mr. Deburg (or rather of Mrs. Deburg as it was the _widow_ who opted for such a display on the death of her husband).

For the locals, it had been one of the first times that they had seen the daughter, Anne. There were many rumors which surrounded the young woman as many claimed that she suffered from ill-health. Some had claimed she was mentally deficient, others that she was intellectually gifted. Lizabeth's aunt thought she had a chronic disease. Anne Deburg was a mystery. But the locals were surprised to see her looking normal and healthy, dressed in black, and standing next to her mother through all the events of that day.

Perhaps they were just a private family. But Lewis Deburg had been a judge, and most judge's lives are open to a little more public scrutiny. Catherine Deburg was often involved in many aspects of Merton society. It seemed odd that the daughter was such an isolated young woman and a target for gossip. If no reason was given by the family for her non-involvement and non-appearance in Merton society, people invented some.

Voices interrupted Lizabeth's thoughts, and she looked up to see a pair approaching the certificate counter. There were _three_ stations along that counter, even if there was only _one_ clerk who handled all business transactions. But a young woman had her arm around another's back. The second woman's face told Lizabeth that she was there for a death certificate. She wasn't old, probably only in her late forties, with darkish hair that was streaked with gray.

Lizabeth wondered if the pair weren't mother and daughter. The older woman wore no make-up as if she knew tears would wash it away. The younger had perhaps just finished high school; she had dark blonde hair and was pretty in that vibrant way that teenagers have before real life catches up with them. She looked to be doing her best to cheer her mother along with this difficult task.

"We need a death certificate," the young woman said as she came up to the counter.

"I can help you with that," Lizabeth answered in her kindest civil service voice. She had a customer service voice she used as this job wasn't one about processing documents so much as it was about providing services to people—looking them in the eye and listening to what they had to say. (Something she never got at home.) It was often about figuring out what they _really_ needed because what people _said_ they needed sometimes wasn't what they _actually_ needed. The older woman burst into tears.

"Why don't you sit down," she soothed.

Whoever had designed the office with its restricting counter hadn't considered how much time she would spend consoling people when it came to filing for death certificates (or congratulating them about birth or marriage certificates). Lizabeth pulled out the box of tissues she kept handy and put it on the counter in front of her; the widow grabbed it.

There was a small set of chairs out in the middle of the room. She had asked someone from facilities to put them there after her first month on the job. "Go have a seat. I'll bring you the paperwork." She had a clipboard ready for these scenarios and walked out to the chairs to join the women.

The older woman had the box of tissues under one arm and was dabbing at her eyes. "Thank you," she said. Her self-control was barely held in check.

"You're welcome," Lizabeth answered, sitting down with her clipboard and pen. She didn't ask any questions because she knew there was a story first.

"It's my husband." Lizabeth nodded as the tale unfolded. "Ross Philips. His name is Ross Philips. No, _was_…" there were more tears. "He died ten days ago, but I can't _do_ anything without a death certificate. They've frozen the bank accounts; I can't _do anything_. I don't know what we're going to do. We don't have much money as it is." She had to cry and dab at her eyes for a couple of minutes.

"Tell me your name," Lizabeth prompted.

"Lori. Lori Philips. This is my daughter, Lydia."

"Hi," said Lydia.

"Never in my life did I think I would need to borrow money from anyone, but Lydia's been working and lending _me_ money, borrowing from my own daughter! This is all such a nightmare!" Lori cried.

Lori Philips's story came out in pieces, with a lot of repetition and tears. They had been having money troubles _before_ her husband's death, so losing her husband (besides the grief of his loss) made her rather desperate. Mrs. Philips didn't know what she was going to do. It had been a trying couple of years.

"The economy, you know, has been bad for a long time," said Lori as she finally got to the point where she could begin to fill out the paperwork. Lizabeth let her talk. Most people exhausted themselves in a short amount of time.

Tears were tiring; visitors usually shed a number of them, then got down to filling out the application. Lizabeth would see them off with a handful of extra tissues, just in case. She could then return the box of tissues behind the counter. It was handy for births and marriages too. Some people were so thrilled to be discussing their newborns that they were brought to tears. Others were so excited to be married that they shed tears. But that box was always used, _always_, when someone came to request a death certificate.

But Lori Philips was a talker. She talked and talked and talked. She spoke about her financial state, which was not good. Lizabeth had understood that in the first five minutes. The daughter was also a talker and corroborated the fact that the Philipses had been having financial difficulties for several years. Lydia Philips talked and talked and talked as Lizabeth watched the clock tick up towards the noon hour when she was supposed to close the office for lunch. But she would never chase anyone away in such a situation. So Lizabeth let Lori and Lydia talk until they had exhausted the piece they had to say. Lori signed her form; Lizabeth escorted them out and locked the front doors.

* * *

It was already ten past noon. She was going to be late for her lunch with Charlene and didn't know if she was going to make it back in time to open at one o'clock. She wrote a note, 'be back at 1:15,' and taped it to one of the doors to give herself some leeway. Using the side entrance, she walked to the Hill Café for lunch.

Charlene Lucas worked at a dentist's office as the office manager and was waiting for Lizabeth, drumming her fingers on the table. Lizabeth's soup and half-sandwich were waiting for her as well when she sat down.

"Sorry, it was a death certificate," she declared, which was all the explanation that was needed. Charlene's job, like Lizabeth's, had set lunch hours. She had even less flexibility to get back to the office late as there were patients waiting at the door with one o'clock appointments.

Lizabeth had to have _some_ friends, though she was sure that her mother wouldn't approve of Charlene. Dawn Bennet generally didn't approve of anyone Lizabeth met first without being properly vetted. It had been gratifying to make her _own_ friends or just to have one she could see without having to sneak around and hide from her parents.

Since coming to Merton, she had discovered that most of the people she knew in high school and college could merely be classified as _acquaintances_. They were people Lizabeth knew in a specific context—like people from school—but not friends that she shared confidences with or pursued simple pleasures with like shopping or watching movies. Any friends at home—potential friends—had been required to meet her mother first before Lizabeth was allowed to leave the house with them.

During her teen and college days, she realized that new friends weren't as flexible as you'd expect about sneaking around behind her mother. They weren't _true_ friends. When she needed to study with someone, Lizabeth would stay at school and text her mother. Dawn would keep an eye on the phone app to make sure that she stayed on campus and didn't go anywhere else. She rarely went any place or did anything when she was in college. She never went out for _fun_.

But she had met Charlene Lucas at a local Merton store called Pope's Treasures. It had been both pleasing and awkward to strike up a conversation with a stranger as the pair of them discussed decorating a home with the little knick-knacks that personalized it to make it feel lived in and _yours_. Charlene had been friendly and didn't notice Lizabeth's self-conscious responses. They ended up buying similar whimsical salt and pepper shakers before noting the time and exclaiming that they were due back at the office. The next day they ran into each other at Hill's café and opted to share a table and their friendship blossomed.

Charlene was a few years older, but that didn't matter to either of them. She had grown up in Merton and could detail its history while Lizabeth had come from the outside and had other experiences to share. They both loved to read and traded books back and forth. Sometimes, they met on the weekends to go shopping or to see a movie, those forbidden activities which still felt slightly criminal. On slow days, they sometimes popped into Pope's Treasures to browse before they hurried back to work. Lizabeth liked Charlene as she was reliable and straight-forward and not nearly as wild as many of Lizabeth's peers (who were often about the latest craze or meme or technology).

* * *

"I ordered for you. I just guessed what you'd want," Charlene remarked. Her cup of soup was empty, though there were still remnants of her sandwich left. It helped that they ordered the soup/half sandwich special most weeks, though Lizabeth could be fickle about her taste buds. That was one embarrassing aspect of having a helicopter mother who catered to her every whim. Dawn Bennet would wait to fix a meal only after asking her wishes. Lizabeth knew she had been spoiled but was learning how to live with fewer choices.

"Thanks," she said, looking at the tomato soup with a wrinkled nose. She admitted (only to herself) that it wasn't what she wanted _that day_, but she dug in, grateful for lunch and company.

"Are you excited about the party on Saturday night?" asked Charlene. She didn't have as much food to get through so could talk.

"I am! I've never been to Judge Metcalfe's house before, and everyone tells me it's quite swanky," she replied between spoonfuls of soup.

"_It is_," Charlene nodded. "I've been many times, for various reasons." She finished the last two bites of her sandwich. "He's had political to-dos there before he was a judge, and also hosted some general parties, like a fund-raiser for the Art Association." She wiped her hand on a napkin as she watched Lizabeth spooning soup rather hurriedly into her mouth. "His wedding reception was there too."

Lizabeth slurped soup off of her spoon then pointed it at Charlene. "Must say I'm happy about that. If Mrs. Metcalfe and he hadn't married, I wouldn't have a job." She put the spoon down and picked up her sandwich.

"You lucked out," her friend remarked. She picked up a cookie and silently nibbled at it. Charlene hadn't purchased one for Lizabeth, who tried to watch her sugar intake. Her mother was forever in her head, admonishing her about 'goodies' and to watch her weight.

"I've never been to a gender reveal party," Lizabeth commented after she had eaten half of her sandwich. Hill's Café was a favorite place for the two of them because it had good food and was close to both of their offices.

"Knowing Mimi, it's likely to be an extravagant party. She never does anything by halves." Charlene finished her cookie. "Married late in life. Married money and a judge. They decided to go straight to the IVF stuff since she's older."

"I'm surprised there aren't two babies," said Lizabeth.

"I think they're doing better with controlling women having too many. You know about the Jenkinson quads, right?"

"Yes. I met one of them already," she mentioned. She didn't want to say that one of the four Jenkinson daughters had come in with her fiancé to apply for a marriage certificate. She wasn't sure if they had gotten married or not or if the family knew. But the four Jenkinson daughters were famous in Merton.

"I heard that Mimi hired an event planner," said Charlene, looking at her watch. She was one of the few people who wore one, but it helped her do her job since she dealt in appointments all day long. "I'll need to leave in a few minutes."

"I wonder what an event planner would do for a gender reveal party?" Lizabeth speculated. "I wonder who they got to do the honors?"

"Probably the woman who works at the hotel," said her friend, who began to gather up her belongings so she could bus the table. It was in the mid-50s outside; Charlene pulled on her coat for the two-block hike back to the dentist's office.

"Jane Sweet?" said Lizabeth. "We're friends. In my early days, someone applied for a marriage certificate and then invited me to their wedding at the hotel, and I went. That's where I met her; I see Jane around town and talk to her if Ed and I are out."

"That must be nice, having strangers invite you to their weddings!" Charlene cried.

"One of the perks of the job. The flip side is having a day like today, where I spend an hour consoling a recent widow," she remarked, collecting her food items, though she still wasn't done with her sandwich.

Charlene said goodbye and hurried out to ensure that she would make it back to the office by one o'clock. Lizabeth wasn't in as much of a hurry to ensure she opened the county office by one. The reason she and Charlene chose Thursdays for their weekly luncheon date was that it was the least busy day of the week for both of them, and it was easier to getaway. For whatever reason, there weren't patients waiting for Charlene or citizens itching to get into the office on Thursday afternoons when they _were_ on other days.

Lizabeth finished her sandwich, then decided she also wanted a cookie. She gazed at the little glass-topped counter. When she had moved to Merton the previous July, and thought she was taking control of her own life, she figured it would be easy to get rid of her mother's influence, but had been surprised how much her mother (or her father) still influenced her thoughts and actions.

Sometimes, she felt that every decision she made required her to pause and ask, _what would Mom think about this_, or _what would Dad do?_ depending on their expertise or their _opinions_ on the matter-at-hand. It wasn't that her parents were necessarily experts at everything in the world. Still, they each were highly opinionated about particular topics, ones which they had taken the time to share with Lizabeth, eight thousand times throughout her childhood, youth, and adulthood.

"Damnit, I just wanted a cookie!" she called out.

"What?" the clerk at the register asked.

Lizabeth realized that she had said that aloud and laughed in embarrassment. "I'm arguing with my mother…in my head," she explained as her voice rose. "I just want a cookie."

"Dollar ten plus tax," said the clerk. She paid and walked out with it in her hand, embarrassed and hoping that the young man wouldn't be working the _next_ Thursday.

Nibbling as she walked, she finished it by the time she turned the corner to the front entrance of the office. There were _two_ figures in front of the doors. Doug Morris was sitting on the cement wall of the planter, which had some drought-tolerant landscaping in it, but another man was standing directly in front of the double doors with his hand on them, rattling them in obvious annoyance.

* * *

A/N: updates on Mondays and Thursdays. 31 chapters total. I have it scheduled between my two vacations so there shouldn't be a disruption in updating. We should end by the first week in June.


	2. Chapter 2

Lizabeth moved up to his side. "Excuse me. If you step aside, I'll unlock the doors."

She used her best customer service voice which usually calmed people down. Doug came to stand at the man's other side. The stranger mumbled something under his breath but stepped away so she could get the key in and unlock the door. Lizabeth pushed it open. The man brushed past her, hitting her arm in the process just as she barely cracked it open.

Doug came up to get the door and let her walk inside, and she stopped to turn on the bank of overhead lights before passing through the little counter door and taking her place. The man was at the business station; he looked impatient.

"You're late!" he yelled as soon as she approached. "This is a poorly-run government office if you are returning at," he looked at his cell phone, "1:09 when the office is supposed to be open at one o'clock."

"I left a sign on the door, didn't you see it?" she asked. "I left late for lunch."

"Then you should have taken a shorter lunch and returned on time!" the man retorted.

"I probably returned to unlock the door at 1:05, so I was only _five_ minutes late; what's your hurry?" she replied, feeling rattled.

"I need to do a title search on some property," he said, leaning across the counter. Lizabeth supposed the move was meant to be intimidating. It would have been, had she stayed still to argue with him. But he needed the proprietary computer terminal, so she turned and walked back to the counter door.

"This way, you need the property terminal." Her hand paused on the little waist-high door because _Doug_ was on the lone public county computer. He probably wasn't using it for property searches, but she wasn't going to say so in front of this belligerent stranger. Lizabeth flipped open the door, stepped through, and closed it.

The man watched her before coming to meet her at the end of the counter. He wore a dark suit that accentuated his tall, slim form. His bearing was of a self-assured and confident man, and he towered over her. He left very little personal space between them now that she was out from behind her counter. "Where?" he asked.

"This way." She led him to where Doug was sitting. "This is a proprietary computer that has all the maps and other county documents on it relating to property."

"Is it the only one? Isn't it on the web?" he grumbled. She thought his voice sounded like a dog growling in warning, though she wasn't sure what he would be warning her about.

"It's our lone terminal. John Muir is a small county. You will have to share, and wait your turn until Doug, Mr. Morris, finishes his searches," she explained.

"You expect me to wait?" the man cried.

"Yes," Lizabeth answered. Doug looked up, obviously amused by the stranger and his less-than-friendly attitude. Most people in Merton were neighborly.

"How long?" asked the man. "_How long_?" he repeated when she didn't answer within three seconds.

There had never been a rush or a line for anyone wishing to use the computer in the seven months she had been at her job. She could consult the binder that Mimi had created about procedures, but Lizabeth created a rule on the fly. "Thirty minutes. If someone is on the terminal, they have thirty minutes to complete their search if someone is waiting."

"I suppose it helps that he knows you. He's probably sleeping with you, so you let him get on the computer before me," accused the man, crossing his arms over his chest. He had the dark and distant self-confidence of a businessman; he wasn't the approachable jokester of a realtor like Doug.

"What!" Lizabeth cried, staring at him in shock. She thought her mouth hung open as her eyes went from wide-open to narrow.

"You're obviously familiar with him if you know him by his first name, just saying," said the man, pointing to Doug. He realized that Doug Morris was looking at them and lowered his arm.

"What a horrible thing to assert!" she cried.

"Exactly!" said Doug. "How horrible of you to make assumptions about my sexuality based on my looks alone. I didn't know I had that woman-killer look! What will the fellas think?"

Her shock died as Doug's joke made her feel warm inside. He was trying to diffuse this offensive jerk with humor, and she appreciated his efforts. She knew he wasn't gay, as he was in the process of getting a divorce and had kids. (Another reason for not being able to afford an office.)

The belligerent man offered no apologies for his slander, but looked at his watch and indicated he would be back in twenty minutes. He said he figured Doug had been on the computer for at least ten and felt he was being generous at that.

"How rude!" Lizabeth cried as soon as the door had clicked shut.

"I wonder what he's searching for?" Doug asked. Lizabeth wondered aloud who he was. "Can't you create some sort of sign-in requirement, and ask him to give his name so we'll _know_ who he is?" Doug pressed.

"No can do. I never give in to gossip at this job," she asserted, though part of her was tempted. She hoped the man would only do a short search and be gone quickly so she wouldn't have to suffer his presence for long that afternoon. Doug turned back and tapped away at the computer, and Lizabeth went to work.

The stranger returned in fifteen minutes and then stationed himself next to Doug to wait for his turn. Doug Morris dutifully turned the terminal over to the man, waved at Lizabeth, and left. She was processing the paperwork for Mrs. Philips and forgot about her visitor.

"Excuse me," the man called out. She didn't feel the desire to look up or help him, given his previous behavior. She continued typing in Lori Phillips' form—she was in the middle of something, he could wait twenty seconds, right? "Young lady! Excuse me!" His voice was loud, and no, he couldn't wait.

"Yes?"

"I'm not finding what I need," he said. He was sitting at the terminal and yelling at _her_ to help.

_What an asshole_, she thought as she made her way through the maze that was her office. "What sort of search do you want to do?"

"I need to do a comprehensive property search and am only finding the parcel number," he explained, staring at the screen and not at her. Perhaps that was an improvement.

"You need to tell the system what types of maps you want to see," Lizabeth said, daring to come a little closer.

He had the comprehensive map open, and she was surprised that it wasn't a single house that he was looking at, but a massive piece of property on the outskirts of town. She moved even closer. "Mind if I drive?" He looked at her in confusion. "Use the mouse," she explained, daring to lean over. "Or do you want me just to tell you where to click?"

"Just tell me what to do," he grumbled.

"Open the layers, and click on each map and that should do it." Again, not in her best customer service voice. There was something about this man which rubbed her the wrong way.

"Layers? Where is that?" he asked, searching around the screen. Finally, he gave up and removed his hand from the mouse.

"Here," Lizabeth said as she put her hand over the mouse. "It's not intuitive. Click right here to open them; you click for the maps: subdivisions, assessments, surveys, and parcels, and then click on the property or parcel. The program will download the PDF files you need." She leaned a little away from him, not wanting to get too close. "We charge for each page printed, but you can put them on a thumb drive for free."

"I don't have a thumb drive on me," he frowned. "Just let me have the mouse back, and I'll get out of your hair as soon as possible. I'll figure out what I need. Looks like I may need to come back later as I _will_ need electronic copies." He made a noise that sounded like a snort, but she was willing to allow it just to be a breath of frustration.

She got as far as her counter-door when he called out, "I don't suppose I can _email_ the PDF files to myself?"

"No. No internet access is allowed on that computer," she said, shaking her head. _Not that Doug doesn't use it for that_, she thought.

"Damn," he said and turned back to the computer.

He didn't leave quickly but sat at the computer for almost two hours. Occasionally, Lizabeth heard him swearing, but she refused to look at him. His business was his business. If he needed help, he would ask. Otherwise, she went on with hers.

The dusty, old property books were in a special bookcase by the public terminal. She thought she would scan old maps and went out to retrieve the 1890s book, which was where she had last left off.

"I will need to come back since I need these files electronically," he told her. Lizabeth looked over at him with the gigantic folio in her arms; he was staring at her, still without a kind look on his face.

"Yes?" she asked, turning.

"You will be here _on time_ on Monday to let me in?" he insisted. Maybe he was being nasty, and maybe he was merely being business-like.

"Doug is here every morning as well," she warned.

"Yes, but will _you_?" he pressed. _Nasty_ then.

"It's my job to be here to open the doors. And I'll be here tomorrow bright and early at 8 a.m.," she said.

"I can't do tomorrow, so I will need to come back on Monday. I have to get back to LA."

"I'm here Monday through Friday, excluding public holidays," Lizabeth said, trying to sound chipper, but it was difficult with his unkind face and belligerent tone.

"Please ensure you are _early_ on Monday," he retorted, standing suddenly, and walking out the front doors.

"What a rude man!" she told the door after it shut. With her huge map book in her arms, she went back to work.

* * *

Judge Metcalfe stuck his head out of his office at about 4:30 to say he was leaving early. His wife had errands for him to run in anticipation of the party on Saturday. Lizabeth waved him off. It was a wonder that he hadn't heard any of the exchanges with her asshole customer earlier. But Metcalfe had his little radio and police scanner in his office, and rarely stepped out.

Troy Metcalfe didn't help in the recording office unless specially asked to; Lizabeth had learned _that_ early on. He liked to maintain a separation of duties. He was a judge; she was the county clerk and just there to record data. Not that he wasn't a friendly and sociable man. Not like the man who had just left, who had spent hours that afternoon frowning at the computer, and whose presence Lizabeth would now have to suffer again on Monday.

At five, she locked up and headed home. Her apartment still didn't feel lived-in yet. It was too sterile, though she was working on acquiring those sorts of items that decorated (or cluttered) a place and made it a home. It was a two-bedroom apartment. _That_ had been at the insistence of her mother, as Mrs. Bennet initially believed that she would visit every weekend. But weekly well check-ups had been one activity which Lizabeth had been able to halt. Aunt Chrissie had backed her up, and they had come up with a compromise: Sunday dinners with the Gardiners. So long as Lizabeth spent her Sunday nights with her aunt and uncle, Dawn was satisfied that Lizabeth hadn't been abducted (or suffered some other atrocious fate), and Mrs. Bennet didn't insist on visiting every weekend.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet purchased two queen-sized beds as a move-in gift. Oddly, Lizabeth preferred the smaller bedroom with its walk-in closet to the larger front bedroom, which merely looked down on the parking lot. She left the larger room for her parents whenever they visited. When they came to town, they didn't stay with Edward and Chrissie, claiming the Gardiner's house was too full (as if things had changed in half a year). The Gardiners had two sons. Her cousin Tyler was in college, and Scott was about to graduate from high school but never home.

She was working on developing a routine at home; should she play music, turn the TV on for background noise, bask in silence? Her mother had controlled so many minute aspects of her life that she had to consciously think about small choices. She was also learning to cook by using videos and the equivalent of a Dummy's guide to cooking. Dawn had never let her into the kitchen and insisted on always cooking for her 'baby girl.' Lizabeth realized what a disservice it had been, as she felt that she had not mastered boiling water and cracking eggs.

Her stir-fry rice ended up soupy, but she ate it anyway, put the items in the dishwasher, and attempted to find something on Netflix to watch, but her mind wandered back to her day. Poor Mrs. Philips and her daughter and being locked out of their bank account. And then _that man_, what was up with him and his LA attitude?

Maybe he was some film guy scouting locations? But that didn't make sense. People did property searches if they were buying or selling. A film producer would just rent or sweet-talk the use of some location; he wouldn't purchase it. Maybe he was some land speculator then? They'd had a couple come through, according to Judge Metcalfe, though without much luck. The real estate highs and lows that had affected other parts of the state hadn't come here—except for the bad loans.

She shook her head and got dressed for bed. Then Lizabeth pulled out one of the historical romances she had borrowed from the library and dove in. It was midnight before she turned out the light.

* * *

Fridays were always busy. People are lazy by nature, when it came to remembering to deal with paperwork, so they put it off as long as possible. But with the weekend looming, citizens would come in to get their fictitious business names filed or register to vote or submit to have their taxes reassessed. It was a typical Friday, but it passed by without any unexpected hitches.

It was ten minutes to five when Edgar called. "I'm running late; things are just…crazy here. Can we skip the drinks and dinner downtown, and I'll take you to the country club instead?"

"Sure," she agreed. Lizabeth preferred the casualness of eating downtown, but so long as she got the date in with her boyfriend, she'd be happy.

"Why not go home and change and meet me at Mom's house, okay?" he suggested. Ed sounded a little breathless, and she could appreciate that he was busy. Most days, he worked until eight. It was a stretch for him to leave his job and pick her up every Friday for their date. They always met in the downtown area, went to the bar inside the hotel (because the other downtown bars would _not_ have met her mother's approval), and then chose a restaurant for dinner.

Edgar Stone, III, was the son of one of Uncle Gardiner's business acquaintances. Mr. and Mrs. Stone had a house that backed up onto the Merton Municipal Golf Course, just down the street from the Gardiners. The families had been friends for years.

Lizabeth had met Edgar when she was a young girl and came to visit her uncle and aunt. She had always thought him handsome and out of reach because he had a couple of years on her. Ed was going off to college when Lizabeth just started high school. He went to graduate school when she walked with cap and gown in high school. But a month after she had moved to Merton, he asked her out which had both shocked and thrilled Lizabeth's romantic heart.

She hadn't been allowed to date in high school, and college had been a busy time. Living at home had also put a damper on dating. Few men took kindly to her announcement that she still lived with her mother and quickly walked away. It didn't help that Mrs. Bennet insisted that her dates come in and introduce themselves as if this was the fifties. Appealing to her father hadn't worked. Even though she was legally an adult, it became a house rule that dates had to be introduced. (One of a multitude of Bennet 'house rules.') Few men hung around for longer than two dates.

But Dawn Bennet approved of Edgar, probably because her uncle or aunt reported back about Lizabeth and their dates. This was one instance, however, when Lizabeth didn't mind because she liked him. And Ed had lasted longer than a week.

She closed up the office, but rather than running home to change (the country club had a dress code), she walked the block and a half to the hotel. Ed might _say_ he would try to hurry home to meet her at his parents' house, but he would get held up. He always did. While Lizabeth liked his parents, hanging out at Ed and LuAnn's house wasn't what she wanted to do for an hour. His mother was decent, but she still hadn't warmed up to his father. She figured she had time for a drink.

Sometimes, Lizabeth thought it odd that she liked to hang out at a bar, but the hotel bar (it was a chain) at five o'clock on a Friday was rarely crowded. The bar countertop was small, but two women perched there. Lizabeth knew Jane Sweet, but couldn't identify the other woman from the back as she approached.

"Hi Jane," she said, sitting next to the hotel's events planner. "How are you holding up? Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"I am. Everything is under control for the Big Reveal," Jane answered. "I'm just taking some time to relax and compose myself. I'll have enough to set me on edge tomorrow. How are you?" Jane Sweet was always calm; Lizabeth couldn't imagine her ever having ruffled feathers.

"You know the sex then if you had to plan the reveal?" Lizabeth nudged.

"Yes, though, I could have planned that event without knowing the final outcome. I can plan for any contingency, that's part of my job," said Jane. Perhaps she was bragging, but she sounded confident.

"I wish I were invited," said the woman on Jane's other side. Lizabeth leaned over to look. She was another hotel employee, the piano player.

"Lizabeth, do you know Mary?" Jane asked, leaning back so the two women could get a better look at each other.

"Yes. I've seen you around many times," Lizabeth said, reaching a hand in front of Jane.

"Me too," said Mary as she shook hands. "Mary Abel, lounge lizard queen." She grinned. It was a Cheshire cat grin.

Lizabeth couldn't keep in the chuckle. "_Lounge lizard queen_?"

"I wear my badge proudly," Mary declared.

"She's a marvel," said Jane. "I tried to get the Metcalfes to hire her for the party, but they didn't want live music."

"Everyone in town is going; I'm sure they wouldn't notice if you snuck in," Lizabeth suggested.

"I think they'd notice _now_ since my act has already been shot down," Mary argued. "I'll just read about it in the paper on Monday."

"Too bad I already RSVP'd, I could bring you as my plus-one," she murmured.

"Aren't you Edgar Stone's plus-one?" Mary hinted.

Lizabeth couldn't help bristling a little. "No. We both received invitations as we both know the Metcalfes through work."

"Oh. I guess I'm fated to be seen as the help and not an invitee," Mary murmured.

"I think it's unfair of Mimi not to invite you," Jane argued, looking sympathetic.

Lizabeth was brought up short. She hadn't considered that the Metcalfes were so concerned with _class_ distinctions. "I think I should just sneak you in with me," she pressed.

"Won't you be driving over with Edgar?" asked Jane.

"We're going separately. He has something to do, some weekend business venture that was to keep him busy all day tomorrow. He said he would be late," Lizabeth explained.

"They know me. It wouldn't work, but thanks." Mary's smile was warm.

"Maybe we can meet on Sunday, and I can fill you in on all the juicy details?" Lizabeth suggested then.

"I have to play for Sunday brunch here," Mary explained, holding up a hand and waving it around vaguely.

"I'll come sit at the end of your piano and fill you in," she offered.

"Okay, you're on," Mary agreed. "Having a little company besides the usual Sunday brunch guests would be a welcome relief."


	3. Chapter 3

With only half a glass of wine in her belly, Lizabeth walked back to her car and drove home. She selected a fancy dress for the dinner with Edgar, did her face and hair, and even rifled through her jewelry box for earrings. Ed wasn't at his parents' house when she drove up, but she sat and chatted with them over another half glass of wine.

LuAnn Stone always fussed whenever she visited. Perhaps Mrs. Stone had wanted more than one child, but LuAnn always asked if she was hungry or thirsty or needed anything. She called her "Lizzybeth," which Lizabeth didn't like, but never corrected. Ed Stone II was hearty, a man's man, and told off-color jokes, which made her blush. He often made allusions to Edgar's sex life if LuAnn stepped away. Lizabeth didn't like Ed's father.

Edgar looked clean-cut and handsome in a dark suit with a red tie when he arrived. "How's my girl?" he asked, coming in to hug her as she sat in the back lounge, which overlooked the swimming pool.

"A little tipsy," she replied. "You need to lecture your parents about not plying me with too much alcohol if we're still going out."

"Dad!" he cried in mock outrage. "Stop trying to get Lizabeth drunk."

"She's fine, dear. I was here to chaperone," his mother remarked. "Have a nice time, you two."

"Thank you," said Lizabeth as Ed gathered up her coat. January nights were cold.

"Mom likes you," said Ed. "Really. She _approves_," he emphasized.

"I like your Mom," she answered. They drove in silence. The country club was down the street, but the clubhouse restaurant required navigating the roads around the perimeter of the golf course to get to its center. He had a table reserved, and there was a bottle of wine waiting. Lizabeth wondered just how drunk she would be when she got home. She had drunk more than a glassful already but also knew that her boyfriend would see she got back safely.

They ordered before they discussed their weeks. Hers was just a repeat of what went before: it was the nature of her job—a matter of endless paperwork so often wasn't mentioned. Ed's was always chaotic, with multiple issues going on at one time. She was impressed that Edgar kept everything straight, but then she wasn't in business, just in the business of record-keeping.

"Ed!" hailed a voice. Lizabeth watched her boyfriend frown in irritation, but then his face changed when he saw who called him.

"Brian!" he exclaimed and waved. A man walked over to their table, leaving behind a half dozen people (all men save one woman). "Lizabeth, this is Brian Forster; he's CEO of Spectre Security Software. They're that tech firm that I've told you about." She greeted the man.

Brian came around the table to shake her hand. "Lovely to meet Edgar's lady."

"Never expected to see you here," said Edgar, who stood and rested his hand on the back of his chair.

"I know, I know, I don't have a club membership," Brian grinned, turning back to Ed. "We have a new hire, George, who's a member and invited us." He glanced back at his group. "I should leave you to it, _and_ your date."

"No, not an issue. Right, Lizabeth?" Edgar asked, looking intently at her.

"No," she answered, not sure what she was agreeing with. Was there some business deal going on with these software people that Edgar was interested in?

"Join us," said Ed.

"I think it ought to be the other way around," Brian remarked, looking bemused as he took in Lizabeth and Ed's intimate table. "Maybe _you_ ought to join _us_?"

"Sure!" Edgar cried. He came to pull her chair out for her then grabbed the still unopened bottle of wine before waving Lizabeth in front of him. The Spectre table was large enough that adding two more chairs and place settings wasn't an issue. Brian made introductions of the remaining employees, plus their host, George Wickham.

Lizabeth paused in nodding to George as she was sure she had heard his name before. The Wickham family was like the Gardiners or the Stones, an old Merton family. She assumed that if George still paid country club dues at six hundred dollars a month (quite an expense), he had money, as that wasn't a luxury most people could afford if they had other bills like rent or car payments or insurance or phone bills.

She was placed next to Edgar, but at least had the lone woman, Amber Chamberlayne, as a seatmate on her other side. It was a round table, but so full that she couldn't talk to the person across. Everyone tried to keep the discussion off of business and on general topics, but it seemed she was the only one _not_ interested in corporate talk; after fifteen minutes, everyone else was speaking in code.

It was her weekly date night with her boyfriend, and the only time she got with him. Lizabeth didn't wish to share Ed with a group of people who wrote security software, even if they were helping to prop up the local economy.

All that wine hadn't gone to her head so much as it had gone to her bladder. She looked expectantly at Amber and half-hoped the woman would go with her to the bathroom. Not that she couldn't go alone, she just hoped they could connect on some topic that wasn't technology. Amber didn't seem to notice, neither did Ed.

Lizabeth had been to the country club many times and knew where the 'retiring rooms' were—the euphemism that the staff used for the bathrooms. They were accessed down a narrow hallway, though the bathrooms themselves were gigantic.

A man blocked the entrance to the passage. At first, the only thought Lizabeth had when she saw him was that he was tall. He leaned back against the wall as though he needed to hold it up, with his legs out in front in an attitude of waiting—the attitude of a bored man. But she raised her eyes to look at him more closely and realized it was the belligerent man from the office the day before.

"You!" she couldn't help exclaiming.

He had been gazing upwards as though thinking, or perhaps there was only a spider whose progress he was slowly following. He looked down, "yes?" His voice was sarcastic and condescending.

"I need to get by," she said.

He looked her over the way men did. She shuddered. "Stop! You already took my measure yesterday. I need to get to the restroom."

"Do I know you?" he asked, and then comprehension came to his face. "The clerk's office. You're that bitch, the incompetent one."

Lizabeth had no wish to acknowledge such an epithet. "You were my argumentative and belligerent visitor."

"You're that less-than-helpful government employee," he countered.

She wondered if this was to become a game of one-up-man-ship. "May I get by?" she conceded, stepping closer.

"Help yourself," was his answer. He didn't move to let her through, and her heels clicked on the marble floor as Lizabeth took tentative steps over his legs. "Tell Caroline and Amanda to hurry it up," he told the ceiling as he searched for his spider again.

She walked down the hall to the end (the men's restroom came first) and pushed open the door. Two women sat in the lounge area at a table in front of a huge mirror which was there for make-up retouches or fixing hair. (There was an even better mirror in the bride's room, because: _country club_.) But the expanse of this mirror in a simple bathroom was impressive.

The eyes of both of the women flickered briefly towards her when she entered then returned to their own faces. Lizabeth went to the toilet area, peed, then came out to wash and dry her hands (on elegant Egyptian cotton towels, not paper). She couldn't help peering into the lounge area. The two women were still admiring themselves. But both sets of eyes looked up at her. One eyebrow on one face shot up to ask a silent question.

"Do you know a tall man, rather bored-looking?" Lizabeth asked.

The eyebrow lowered, the face remained neutral. "Is he _still_ waiting? I thought Charles would have shown and dragged him to the bar by now." Her eyes sought her companion's in the mirror and seemed to ask a question.

"Maybe we should see what he's up to," said the second woman. They were both blond, and Lizabeth was having a hard time distinguishing between them. The first face was sharper somehow.

"He appears enchanted with the ceiling," she offered.

"William is either utterly obsessed or utterly bored," said eyebrow blond, who patted her own cheek.

"Where did you get your dress?" asked the other woman. Lizabeth wasn't sure if the woman was interested in her answer or if blondie was being pretentious. She joined the duo in self-reflection as she considered the dress. It was a basic sheath with dark green lace over a black underlining. It was a beautiful piece as it worked well for many occasions.

"A boutique store in San Francisco," she answered, putting a hand on a breast and rubbing at the lace. "I don't remember which ones."

That was a sufficiently decent answer as the blond nodded. Lizabeth figured she was lucky her mother was obsessed with ensuring her daughter had only the best and would drag her shopping at any opportunity. (Though Dawn usually came home with more items.) Lizabeth nodded a brief goodbye.

She walked out of the bathroom and back down the passage. Their friend, William, was in the same place, and still contemplating his spider. Maybe he had x-ray vision and could see through the ceiling at whatever was above? She quietly stepped over his feet and returned to her party of friends, or rather, to Ed's business acquaintances.

The main course had arrived, and the clink of cutlery on plates made people raise their voices. Lizabeth worked through her entrée. It was noisier than normal at the country club and had the hallmarks of a business meeting as not only were their phones out, but someone had a small laptop. She sighed and looked at Edgar, who had Brian on his right. They were practically nose-to-nose as they stared down at a cell phone screen.

She took another bite and looked around at the others at the table. Everyone wore an intense, almost fanatical look on his face except for the host, George Wickham. He was talking, but she thought he looked slightly less engaged than the others. He noticed her gaze and smiled in return before turning to his seatmate.

"I think we won't be able to see the lay of the land properly," said a voice. Lizabeth thought the speaker's name was Vic.

"But it's always best to _see_," said another man. Lizabeth couldn't remember his name, '_Josef,'_ she thought to herself. If she saw their names in print, she would have them all memorized, as she had a visual memory, not an auditory one. She had trouble remembering names when people were introduced; she loved parties that had name tags. (It was partly why she loved her job, everything was in print.)

Her eyes followed the discussion around the table. "I think we _should_ see," Ed agreed, his interest palpable.

"I think we should see if there's moonlight," Amber argued. Lizabeth still couldn't figure out what they were discussing.

"Easy enough," said George, who pulled out his phone, opened an app, then frowned. "No, not a full moon, it's a new moon tonight, actually."

Josef, who sat two chairs away, leaned across another man towards George. "I still think we should go. Plus, you're the expert—the local man—and can show us the ropes."

"It's only about three or four miles away," George admitted.

"Yeah, but five miles around, plus we'd want to poke around," said Josef.

"They're street lights," said Edgar. That seemed to be the definitive argument.

"Are you property-hunting at night?" Lizabeth managed to ask.

"Yes," he answered. "The Goulding property. We might be able to wrangle it at a good price if we can convince them to sell. It just sits there open and barren with development on all sides. And the Spectre group here has some great ideas about developing the land. A tech hub, that sort of thing."

"I see." It was an automatic response. She wasn't sure why the urgency to go that night.

"I can run you to your car first; it's on the way," said Edgar.

"No, I'll get the front to get me a cab so you can get right to it." There would be no snuggling on the couch watching a movie, which was their usual post-date activity. Lizabeth began to say her goodbyes to the group. Half didn't seem to notice, but George stood and came over to shake her hand.

"I'll walk you up front," said Ed. "I appreciate your understanding. This might be a huge real estate deal for me if I can get in on the ground floor." Edgar Stone had his hand in several business deals; one of them was commercial real estate development.

"I understand. Besides, I'll see you tomorrow night at the Metcalfes." Lizabeth dismissed his business interests; it came with the territory of being Edgar Stone's girlfriend. She began to wonder what would happen if things got serious between them. Did she love him? She wasn't sure she was there yet, not deep and romantic love. Maybe she had read too many romance novels, but she was halfway through quite a racy one at home. To finish it would be a fitting end to her evening.

Ed walked her out to the front desk and asked the staff to order her a cab. They talked about the Metcalfe party while they waited. When the cab pulled up, he took her gently in his arms, kissed her lightly, then helped her with her coat.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he called as she walked out the front doors, which had a sensor, so they opened automatically.

"See you," she answered. The doors swished shut behind her. The cabbie didn't bother to get out but remained behind the wheel as she approached the car.

The country club entrance was a massive covered portico accessed by a smoothly curving road. It was built to allow brides to get out of whatever sized vehicle they chose, rain or shine, and to remain dry and picture-perfect. Two men were just on the other side of the entranceway. Perhaps they had just parked and were coming in. Maybe they had gone out for a cigarette and were sneaking back. Lizabeth only noted their presence out of the corner of her eye without taking in their exact appearance until one spoke.

"That was the most pathetic goodbye kiss I have ever seen," said William, who now appeared to have taken on the role of tormentor to Lizabeth.

"How do you know; have you ever been kissed by Edgar?" she asked, turning. "Appearances can be deceiving." Her tormentor wasn't expecting such a reply and stopped short. "Let us assume you haven't, as Doug didn't seem to be your type. You didn't express any interest _there_. So don't express opinions unless you know what you're talking about."

William's companion burst out laughing and stepped up to open the cab door for her. "Your carriage, my lady. I'm Charles, by the way."

"Lizabeth," she answered. "Good night."

"Good night, Lizabeth," said Charles and carefully shut the door after he ensured that her long winter coat wasn't caught in the door. Lizabeth thought about the second man. She thought she had seen him before, but she couldn't recall the context.

The cab took her to the Stones to retrieve her car; she did not go in. Once home, she crawled into her pajamas and dived back into her romance novel.

* * *

The gender-reveal party was set to begin at three in the afternoon on Saturday. The invitation had indicated 'casual dress,' but it was difficult to speculate what 'casual' meant at such a party, especially if it was expected to go on until late. There had been hints that the big reveal wouldn't occur until after sunset. Lizabeth wondered what sort of party the Metcalfes would hold for the baby's birth or christening or first steps or other milestones. Baby Metcalfe was likely to be an only child as Judge Metcalfe was just on the lee side of fifty, and Mimi had seen her fortieth birthday, though she didn't admit to her real age. It was why they had turned to IVF as soon as they wed.

There was valet parking, and a teenager in a red jacket took her car keys and handed her a ticket. The Metcalfe place was impressive. It had been built about a hundred years before in Spanish-style adobe with red roof tiles. It was a mansion with many bedrooms and so many specialty rooms that Lizabeth couldn't fathom all of their uses.

The entrance was decorated in pinks and blues, and workers appeared to still be setting things up, and even though it was about twenty past three, it seemed Lizabeth was unfashionably early. She walked into one of the living areas on one side of the entrance hall but didn't find Judge Metcalfe or Mimi. In the other living room, she discovered her hostess sitting on a couch talking to a man.

Mimi looked eagerly at her. "Lizabeth! Welcome! Let me introduce you." She pushed her belly forward as she shuffled off the couch. Lizabeth thought she was anxious to be off on some errand—probably to check on some aspect of the party. Mimi was quite a list-maker (they were _her_ procedural binders that Lizabeth had inherited).

The mom-to-be wore a tight-fitting dress, no maternity wear for her. Her belly bulged in front of her as she stood and held a hand out to Lizabeth, kissing her on both cheeks. Lizabeth considered herself friends with the Judge, not really with Mimi, but welcomed the greeting; she then looked at the other visitor.

The man wasn't on the couch but was next to it; he was in a wheelchair. Not a cumbersome hospital-type, but an ultralight mobility one. He sat straight and tall in it. She thought he was probably between thirty and forty, and given the wheelchair, she guessed he was ex-military.

"This is Ryan," said Mimi off-handedly. "I've got things to check on with Jane," and walked away on high heels, despite being top-heavy.

"I think she's uncomfortable around you," said Lizabeth, who held her hand out to the man. He had a firm handshake.

"I think you're right," he replied. "Ryan Fitzwilliam. I arrived early, so I could maneuver the chair and plant myself accordingly. One of the many strategies I've adopted over the years."

_Strategies_: she thought for _sure_ he was ex-military. "Lizabeth Bennet. I came on time, which apparently is still not done as no one else is here!"

"I think there are others out back. That's where the footrace is going to be."

"Footrace!" she cried, sitting down next to him. "I didn't wear the right shoes." She looked down at her heels.

"This is going to be an outrageous party. Expect the unexpected," he remarked.

"I've been in Merton almost seven months and have been on the fringes of some of this…society," she said as she settled on the couch. "I…I thought I was well off when I was growing up, but I've been exposed to some excesses that I never considered possible."

"You're the young woman who took Mimi's job at the recorder's office, right?" Ryan asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "My uncle lives here. I graduated and was job-hunting, and it all worked out."

"Yes, so I heard," he remarked and shifted in his chair to be able to look at her better.

"Wait, you've heard of me?" Lizabeth wasn't sure that she liked how he expressed that thought.

"Mimi and Troy have mentioned you, of course. But my Aunt Catherine keeps tabs on most people who have any positions in Merton government," he explained.

"Your aunt keeps tabs on my working in _government_," she murmured.

"Don't worry. Aunt Catherine's just weird and a little obsessed and thinks she runs the town, but she doesn't. Not by a long shot," he assured her. They fell into a relaxed conversation about the town. His family had been established there since the Gold Rush. Ryan hinted it hadn't been a pristine background over the years as much as his Aunt and other family members liked to claim that they had helped to found the town. He shared a little about his experiences working with disabled vets. A hint that he had been in Afghanistan came up as well.

Lizabeth felt like she had no life experiences when compared to such a life history: one hundred and fifty years of family history in one place, and years of military service. She felt inadequate being such a kept child that she had only been able to break away from her parents' influence when she was twenty-four-years-old. How little she had done with her life.

She didn't notice that people were finally gathering for the party until a couple sat down rather forcefully and bumped her. A drink was spilled, but thankfully not on her, but down the woman's neckline, which elicited shrieks. Lizabeth stood quickly as her dress wasn't one she wanted to risk. It was dry-clean.

"I guess the fun has started," she said to Ryan. "Want to check it out?"

"Sure," he agreed, unlocking the brakes on his wheelchair. He waved her in front of him, but she indicated that she wasn't quite sure where to go. Thoughts of stairs worried her, and she hoped that Ryan knew his way around. He did, turning away from a long run of them after they got back to the entrance and wheeling to a hallway where an elevator nestled in an alcove. It took them down to the garden level behind the house.

The property was enormous. The cultivated gardens were extensive and probably covered five acres. Beyond that was a more natural area. As they came out of a sunroom into the gardens, there was a table heaped with shawls. A woman in black handed them out to any passing women, indicating it would be cold, and they might need it, given the temperature. Lizabeth accepted the random shawl and kept walking. In an area near a fountain, the Judge and his wife greeted their guests. Dozens of people now milled about. Most wore lanyards of pale blue or bright pink.

Jane Sweet stood in front of a long table draped in black cloth, which had rows of lanyards lined up on them. A massive bowl held plastic balls and sat between the rows of lanyards. Jane handed out a plastic ball to whoever approached. Each participant opened it and read the slip of paper. Then she or he would be awarded a colored lanyard. Each lanyard had a small key at the end, but she wouldn't say what the key was for.

"Not yet, that's a surprise," Jane hinted as she handed Lizabeth a bright pink lanyard. Her plastic ball had contained a piece of paper with the word 'Pink' on it. Ryan was on Team Pink as well. They moved away from the table and towards the garden area. Out in that formal space were obstacles—saw horses, ladders, and ropes, and huge boxes (which looked like they had housed refrigerators) set up in the walkways. Police tape cordoned off a large section of the formal gardens from where they stood. Many guests gathered at the edge to gaze at the jumble of debris—but well-lit debris—before them.

"It's not like tidy, efficient Mimi to have such a jumble of junk," Lizabeth remarked.

Ryan couldn't see as well as other people could, but maybe he had a different perspective. "You know what I think? It looks like a giant Rube Goldberg Machine. I think that's part of the reveal, and why we have the lanyards."

"You mean those crazy machines that require a dozen steps just to push a button?" she asked. He nodded. "Hmm," Lizabeth looked at the garden layout again. "I think maybe you're right."


	4. Chapter 4

The noise level rose as more people came to examine the event stage. Many perched on the stone balustrade that separated the fountain area (where Jane's black cloth-covered tables lay) from the gardens beyond. The crazy gender-reveal setup game or event or atrocity—whatever it was—awaited just beyond their reach.

"Are you worming your way into my territory?" Edgar asked as he walked over to Lizabeth's free side. He wasn't looking at her; his eyes were on Ryan on her other side.

"I have not employed such tactics," Ryan remarked, turning his chair to face Ed. Lizabeth stepped forward to kiss her boyfriend, but he stopped short.

"I apologize. I didn't realize that you were…" he didn't greet Lizabeth but stared at Ryan Fitzwilliam in his wheelchair. He finally turned back to her. "I've arrived. A _whole_ day of work. Just got away, ready for the fun?" His arm slipped around hers, and he pulled her away from her companion of the past few hours.

She turned her head. "Bye, Ryan. Great talking with you."

"See you around, Lizabeth," he called after her as they disappeared into the crowds.

"I think I met her last night," said a voice. A hand was laid on Ryan's arm. He looked up to see Caroline Bingley looking blond and elegant and professional.

"Name's Lizabeth. Not sure I like the guy," said Ryan.

"I didn't see _him _last night, but then men aren't allowed in women's restrooms," she quipped.

"How are you, Caroline?" he asked, turning his chair a little.

"Bored. Having kids is not on any list of mine."

"Why come?" he quipped, staring at her perfect face.

"It's my job," she answered, removing her hand and going to sit on the stone balustrade. She was more on an eye level with him then.

"Does Will have you scouting locations again?" Ryan asked.

"Yes, but on the sly. He's not here tonight in his executive producer role, just as a friend of the Metcalfes."

"Did he bring that actor with him too? How is he explaining bringing an _entourage_ with him?"

"You know William; he just BSs his way through life. Told Troy that as long as he was to come for the shower, or whatever this is _officially_ being called, he should visit family. He's trying to pass off Amanda as his current girlfriend."

"I thought _you_ were his plus one," Ryan commented.

"Officially, I am. But we've got Charles and Amanda in tow tonight as well. Not that I think it matters with so many people, what would _two more_ matter?" Caroline shrugged her shoulders. "If you're a good enough event planner, you allow for such eventualities. Besides, people are so smitten with actors—and there's _even_ got to be some who've seen Charles in his last rom-com and think he's a celebrity."

"Is CinemaReady a step-up from a cable series?"

"It isn't Hollywood. I'm under no illusions that we're the elite. There're still lines of distinction in LA. It's way better than some design-your-own YouTube dramas, though some of _those_ are getting better. People like to craft stories and display themselves, no matter what the medium," Caroline explained.

"We like to be fed stories even if they're well-nigh impossible to achieve or live or even dream," said Ryan, who unlocked his wheels.

"How's it going for you?" she asked.

"Life as a disability activist is always tough," he croaked and pushed himself away. He left her sitting on the cold stone fence as his cousin was at the tables. He had a blond on his arm_, of course_, and his actor friend, Charles Lee, in tow.

"But your ball says 'Pink' so you have to wear pink," he heard the event planner insisting. Ryan thought she was lovely. Not in the artificial way of the actress who clung to Will's arm—skinny body, big boobs, and a big head. And her hair was a lion's mane, untamed; she looked distant. Ryan thought Charles Lee agreed with him that the petite and smartly dressed event planner was beautiful. The actor had a tilt to his head as he stared at the scene before him, watching, rather than participating. _That_ had to be unusual for an actor.

"I won't wear pink," insisted his cousin, Will, who thrust the paper back at the woman. "Amanda, what'd you get?"

The actress carefully opened the plastic ball with awkward motions as she tried to avoid ruining her manicure. "Pink," she declared once she unfolded her paper.

"Damn," said William. "Charles?" There was a small group around them, probably because there were whispers of celebrities being in the crowd.

Charles shook his head as he had been staring at the event planner and not listening. "What?"

"What color do you have?" Will asked.

"Let me see." He cracked open his sphere. "Blue."

"Switch with me," said William, thrusting his be-damned 'Pink' paper at his friend and colleague.

"Alright," Charles agreed.

"That means we won't be on the same team!" Amanda pouted.

"Deal with it," said his cousin. The appropriate colored lanyards were dutifully distributed.

"I'm pink," Ryan declared as he pushed forward. People parted to make room for him.

"Hey Ryan," said William, who didn't look ashamed in the least. "_You_ can carry off wearing pink since you've been to hell and back."

"Must you always refer to my service as if it's the only thing which defines me?" Ryan grumbled.

"Sorry," said his cousin sounding genuine and not Hollywood. "I've always thought that we should do a show about your time overseas."

"I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it to that extent," Ryan asserted, his face expressionless.

"I just really wanted to be on _your_ team!" cried Amanda in a whiny voice. "What am I going to do without _you_!" She came up and grabbed William by the arm, petting him on the shoulder. "William…William."

He huffed, "enough, Mandy, you're overacting," then added under his breath, "as usual."

The actress dropped his arm and let hers hang down. "I wonder where Caroline is?" she said in a perfectly normal tone of voice.

"Waiting for the festivities to start," said Ryan. "I left her at the entrance to the garden." Amanda walked away.

"Charles, are you coming?" William asked. His friend stared at the event planner as she passed out the last of the colored lanyards to the late arrivals. That giant bowl of plastic balls was down to a dozen. "Charles?" William prompted. He walked over to his friend (and the lead actor in most of his productions).

"I think I'm in love," said Charles.

William glanced with more perception at the event planner. She was short, trim, and had a nice body with unusual reddish-gold hair and beautiful doe-like eyes. The producer in him looked her over critically. He thought that she was beautiful, was photogenic, but that the motion picture camera wouldn't like her. It was why so many models didn't make the shift to acting. There was a difference between people who did well posing for still photographs and people who did well once the film moved.

Not that there was anything to say against her—so he attacked his friend. "You fall in and out of love every month, Charles."

"No, let me restate that," said Charles. "I think that is the type of woman I want to love _me_."

_That_ statement took William by surprise; he looked a little more closely at his friend because it wasn't a sentiment Charles had ever expressed. William said, "I don't understand the difference. You love her, or she loves you."

"No," said Charles, who still observed his object of interest with almost a detached air. "I think she is the type of woman whose love you would sell your soul for, and then spend the rest of your life trying to mortgage it back, just to pay the interest." He sighed.

"Well, that's not original." He made a sound that was half scoff, half laugh. "I've never known you to write, so I can only assume you borrowed that from a play or manuscript."

"Of course it's not original," Charles laughed, finally coming out of his reverie. "Actors are rarely writers. If you allowed us to write dialogue for love scenes, we'd write such gripping lines as 'I love you, I love you, I love you.' The audience would laugh, tune out, and leave. _You_ wouldn't make a single dime. That's why there's a need for producers and directors and writers…and _actors_." He finally tore his eyes away from the event planner as she was putting away all the things on her table. Charles stared at William. "Have fun on Team Blue."

William quipped, "yes, but your newest soulmate is on neither."

Charles followed behind his friend happily. William walked to where the event was supposed to be unveiled. He found Amanda and Caroline cozied up together on the stone balustrade. He was used to having an entourage; it was part of being a producer in LA.

Music began to play. There were speakers built into the balustrade and the planters. It was attention-grabbing and uplifting, like the music you would hear at Disneyland or before players were announced at a sports game.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming to the Metcalfe's Big Reveal!" boomed a voice as the music softened. It was well staged, and he admired how it got everyone's attention.

"Please make your way to the top of the garden area if you wish to be part of the Big Reveal," said that amplified voice. "This is an immersive event, and we need everyone's help. You _all_ need to participate. No holding back, _please_. Have fun!" He could imagine the event-planner as she corralled the guests towards the starting area.

"Now, please understand that though there are two teams, Team Blue and Team Pink, and the point is to have fun with celebrating the new Metcalfe baby, because there will be a winner, it does _not_ mean that the baby in Mimi's belly is going to change its sex to accommodate the winning team!" There were catcalls, whoops, and a lot of laughter at this disclaimer.

More people crowded in against the long stone fence that separated one section of the garden from the other. William could see that the area which might be described as the garden proper (with plantings and trees), had boxes and ladders—even car tires—laid around it. The noise level increased as the crowd became denser. He didn't pay attention to his entourage but watched as black-clad workers by the dozens began to swarm into the garden area to set up devices by hooking ropes to poles, and tilting pieces of wood to lean precariously against other objects. His mind whirled as he watched what looked like a giant mouse maze with various traps being set up.

"Please split into your two teams and elect a captain," called out the ever-cheerful event planner.

There was some stepping on toes, and bumping shoulders as the two teams split. It helped that the lanyards were distinctive. It also helped that two black-clad helpers stood on the stone fence and held up a large sheet of cardboard with the appropriate color painted on it, so there wasn't any grumbling about which direction to go.

* * *

William had to leave his friends behind as all but Caroline were Team Pink. She walked beside him, without a word, to the Blue section of the patio. As with any crowd, some wanted to be leaders, there were those who just wanted to blend in, and those who didn't care so long as they had fun. The men (no women seemed inclined to put themselves forward) were sizing each other up, but also showing off for the crowd as to why _they_ ought to be the leader.

Four men expressed candidacies for team leader. One was older, and William thought he remembered him—as a fellow attorney and friend of Metcalfe's by the name of Haggerston. Two others looked like local businessmen, again probably men well known to the Judge. One of those two he thought he had seen. The previous evening, Charles had taken longer to drive up from LA than he had expected. Being a cheap actor, Charles didn't bother with valet parking. When he sent a text saying he was lost in the parking lot, William had gone to retrieve his friend.

On their way back into the clubhouse, there had been a scene with the woman from the registry office. William had felt compelled to comment on the kiss; he couldn't remember now why he had spoken up. There was something infuriating about the man, the way he herded or possessed her. William didn't think that men still acted that way towards women. It bothered him that this guy saw her not as a person but as a _possession_.

William was a producer, and he dealt with visuals. He had summoned all of that up with just one glance, hence his quip. But what he hadn't expected was her sharp retort. It was then that he realized that he had overlooked an element of the drama unfolding before him. There had been a substitution, an understudy had come in, unannounced, and the meek china doll part was to be played by that woman from the recording office. William had assumed he was stepping up to speak on some poor woman's behalf, but apparently, she wasn't allowing it. He could only look stunned that he hadn't noticed that particular piece of the puzzle while Charles, _charming_ _Charles_, pulled out all the stops to help her into her chariot so that Cinderella could make her way home.

The fourth man was a priest. When William thought about it, he realized the man wasn't a Catholic one, but one of the Protestant variety. He had been baptized Catholic but had left the church after his father died years ago and wasn't sure how other churches worked. Did you invite clergy to baby showers? But this man claimed the right of leadership as well.

When Ed Stone was voted in, William noticed him walk over to speak to the event planner, and he looked at the young woman he'd run into the previous two days. She was dressed differently now. Yesterday, her hair had been pulled up, and she had been encased in a long winter coat. But today, she had her hair down. It was long and luxurious and quite beautiful. Most women didn't opt for such length after they turned twenty.

William watched the Team Blue leader strut over, put his arm around his registry office nemesis like the peacock that he was to kiss her, and she kissed him back. He felt annoyed as he watched.

"I think I'm finding less reason to like _her_ if she likes _him_," Caroline commented.

"He's a peacock. He wouldn't last five minutes outside this town," said William.

"No," Caro agreed. "It's interesting, though, there's something about _her_ that caught my eye."

"I thought all women caught your eye," he remarked.

"In a professional manner, sometimes in others, but he is so run-of-the-mill. I can't figure those two out. Why would they even be together? They don't strike me as compatible," she mused. Then they were recalled to the party by that group of black-clad helpers who herded them to their task-at-hand.

It was to be a full-immersion experience, a participatory Rube Goldberg machine, where all the guests became part of the machinery. Another one of those little public service announcements piped up to assure people that if they had different levels of physical ability, they would still be able to participate. Any concerned guests should tell any of the helpers about limitations so they could be seated or slotted into appropriate positions so no one was taxed unnecessarily.

As an event, William continued to be impressed. It was over-the-top, and there weren't any details, so far, that he found wanting. Many people had definite ideas about which position in the machine they wanted. Some were limited as to what they could do (particularly women in high heels with flowing skirts who hadn't heeded the dress warning) so they couldn't climb to the top of ladders or run.

He told one of the helpers to "place me where I'm needed." The young lady smiled broadly, catching his eye and winking at him in a way that he often inspired, and indicated that she would put him someplace _special_. William found he was to be on the receiving end of a long end of people who had to stand in car tires. His job was to use his best basketball skills to throw a ball into a hoop (though it was set at a ridiculously close range). People were supposed to pass the ball back and forth, mimicking the way balls bounced around, like in pinball machines. He found the young woman from the recording office (her name was Lizabeth) was next to him. She called out that she was at the end of the 'tire-chain-gang' (a moniker she coined).

One of those workers readily adopted it. "Tire-chain-gang, over here! You too, sir," as William was added at the end.

Her boyfriend wasn't part of their small group since he was the Team Blue captain. The Captains were assigned to run the final stretch, which was located at the garden's end. William watched as the man, displeased with her choice, came over to argue with her. "Lizabeth! Choose something at the end, so you're near me!"

"But this is what I want to do!" she argued back. "Being in the tires, it's like being a bouncing ball. Most of those end positions require being up ladders or pulling ropes. It doesn't seem as much fun."

"Stupid!" he called. "You need to be with me."

_Again_, William thought, _possession_, _not_ _person. _He watched Ed strut angrily away to his position while Lizabeth stepped inside her tire.

There were laminated cards that explained exactly what each station was required to do with an illustration _and_ with words in case that didn't get the idea across. Somebody in black explained the how-to as well. It took almost forty-five minutes to get everyone in place who wanted to participate. William noticed there were little cheering sections setup. Knowing that there were people who were too _dignified_ to participate, these areas had been cordoned off for those who wanted only to clap as the balls—one pink, one blue—made their way around the garden.

He reserved judgment as to whether it was a clever or a stupid idea until he saw the final outcome. So many things could go wrong. Perhaps that was what made it fun: so many things _could_ go wrong. He thought he heard whispered comments from people who were figuring out ways to cheat the system. He wondered if that pretty event planner had considered _that_. There were always people who tried to cut corners and figure out a way to get ahead.

The same happy music began to play through the speakers, indicating the commencement of the activities. That voice came through, "okay, everyone get ready. The balls are in place. We're going to get started. Remember, don't move or pull or jump or tap or hit or throw unless that ball is near you. No false starts, no cheating, and may the best team win!"

William stood still, ready to receive the ball and lob it into the basket across the walkway. He craned his neck to see where the ball was to begin. There were shouts and cries as the pink ball and the blue ball began to make their way through the maze of obstacles, most of them human, most of them requiring human intervention (that had been the point). Sometimes, there was a slide for the ball to roll down or a basket it needed to nestle in where someone would crank a handle quickly to lower it from one height to another only to have it sprinted across an area to be put into another basket and raised.

The cheering sections for those who initially felt they were above such things as participating began to get rowdy. People now found themselves jumping up and down and cheering for their selected team as the pink ball and the blue ball made their way through the two elaborate human machines.

William was tall enough to have a good perspective on the events as they unfolded, but his companion said, "I can't see," as the blue ball disappeared down a ramp. A man snatched it, fell, got up, and ran again.

"How do you think we're doing against the pink team?" Lizabeth asked. Her joy and excitement were evident and infectious.

He couldn't help responding, "I can't tell in the slightest," but was enjoying himself nevertheless.

"It doesn't matter if we win or lose as much as Ed is assured that we'll win."

"So I noticed," he remarked. The noise and excitement grew as that blue ball neared their section.

"Here it comes!" she cried, bouncing up on her toes. She pulled off the shawl which she had been wearing, revealing a loose-fitting maroon-colored dress underneath. William watched as she fiddled with her hair, running her fingers through the locks which framed her face to pull it away from her eyes. She pulled it up off of her shoulders into a loose ponytail but had no way to tie it. It had a mind of its own, and as soon as she released it, strands spilled back to the front and framed her face.

She wasn't looking at him; her eyes tracked the progress of the blue ball as it moved erratically through their side of the garden. William noticed that she had very dark eyes that stood out against her pale skin. In her excitement, she stood on her toes again; all of her movements were anxious yet playful, and he thought, _how beautiful. _He watched how, in her playfulness, she held her arms in front of her in anticipation, ready to do her part in this performance (a group performance). William thought that Lizabeth, with her dark hair and eyes, her beautiful face, and her lithe movements, would be one of those people who would look good on film.

"Here it comes!" she cried, turning slightly as her body tracked the movement of the ball.

A man came running towards their area with the ball under his arm, having picked it up when it had landed in a small pond. William didn't envy dealing with a wet ball. It was passed to the end of the chain gang. From there, it was passed back and forth between all of the participants who stood in the car tires. They laughed as they swapped it from one to the other down the length of tires until finally, a woman handed it to Lizabeth, who held it out to William.

He leaned towards her and over-shot his reach; instead of getting the ball, William caught Lizabeth in his arms, like a hug. He had to lean back, while she leaned back (thankfully not recoiling), but with laughter on her lips, and thrust the ball into his hands. He took it, turned, and lobbed it. It was an easy distance to get it into the basket, and he made his target.

The blue ball continued its journey in the garden to the final setup; the pink ball stayed on par as participants on both sides worked the balls through the obstacles towards the end. Darkness had descended, though William hadn't noted, mainly as there were garden lamps at appropriate intervals, and extra lighting set up throughout the garden to ensure that there was adequate illumination. He didn't doubt that there were videographers who were putting this down for posterity, newsmen as well. There would probably be a short quip at the end of the local TV news broadcast that night.

But as participants finished their tasks, they crammed forward to join others who had been merely spectators as the final participants carried the ball the last few yards and ran or maneuvered around the course. William looked up to see their team captain standing ready to run the last fifty feet towards a center platform with two big buttons on them (one for Team Blue, one for Team Pink). Ed's face was shining in excitement and pride as he waited for the blue ball to reach him. Once his hands clasped it, he spun and ran towards the center.

William's eyes turned to the other side; he was surprised to see his cousin in his wheelchair with a pink ball on his lap; Ryan's hands pushed the wheels of his chair as he shot towards the center. His loyalty switched teams then as he cheered on Team Pink and Ryan Fitzwilliam. Ryan had the strength of his arms and will and a desire to win. He had years of physical training behind him; his cousin knew how to win if it was a situation requiring physical strength even if he didn't have the use of his legs. He knew what was needed and pushed himself, reached the center platform, leaned over, and tapped the button on the pink side just ahead of Ed.

"Oh, well done!" William heard Lizabeth declare of Ryan's performance.

Pink lights illuminated a screen behind the two captains. There were also searchlights, the kind you see at Hollywood premieres, also with pink lights. But words formed on that screen: Look To The Skies. Suddenly, all the lights in the garden area went dark. There was a big 'oh,' a few screams, and a lot of snickers as people held onto each other.

Music swelled around them, through the speakers in a huge crescendo, different this time, trumpets blared. This was the announcement, and everyone did as they had been told. They looked up. The sounds of rockets boomed as fireworks were being sent overhead. They burst in the sky into giant florets of blue blooms. This was repeated over and over and over, illuminating the sky above everyone.

As William looked up at the scene, he saw it illuminated the faces of everyone cheering. Hands reached up in triumph and waved. Most everyone was clapping and calling out their congratulations to Troy and Mimi. There was a lot of hugging, and even some kissing, as the elation of the group's mood was contagious. "It's a boy! It's a boy!" became a chant.

William felt a hand on his sleeve, squeezing his arm as he looked at the companion next to him. Lizabeth's face lit up in excitement. "The Judge is going to have a son!" she cried.

He did something uncharacteristic. William swept her into his arms, held her tightly, and swung her in an arc around him as he laughed, the same sort of contagious laughter that the group shared.


	5. Chapter 5

Her companion swirled Lizabeth around in a circle in their shared excitement, before then her feet touched back down on the ground.

"It's a boy!" she cried out yet again. "I'm so excited!" Her hands squeezed his upper arms as he still hadn't let go of her.

William looked down at her and then seemed to realize that he was holding her around the waist and opened his fingers to release his hold, though he didn't quickly pull his arms away. "Metcalfe wanted a son," he remarked. His arms finally fell to his side.

"I need to find Edgar," she said and turned away without any other word. She'd just hugged that rude man from the country club and the office! She'd been caught up in the group excitement, but apparently, so had he.

Ed was at the back of the garden near the final platform, as the two team leaders posed for photographs. Jane Sweet was organizing the photographer and a videographer.

"You both get a special prize for being our Team Captains," she explained. Lizabeth saw that she was holding two new lanyards, which were black and blue check (baby blue). "Along with the keys on your team lanyards, try these out at our wall of gifts in the game room." Jane handed one to each of the captains.

Edgar took his and did a mock salute towards the event planner then glanced nervously over at his fellow captain. He looked up to see her and waved her over. "Lizabeth!"

"Congratulations," she said, coming up. Her arm reached for him, but he shook off any sign of affection.

"What do you mean," he whispered as he dodged her. "I lost!"

"But you represented Team Blue really well. It was a joint effort."

"I can't believe I lost to a man in a wheelchair," he grumbled, turning his back on her and walking away from the winner's area.

"But he's a great man, and it was all for fun!" Lizabeth continued.

"Let's go eat," Edgar grumbled without waiting to see if she followed. The amount of food was enormous. A formal dining room gave way to a living area, which gave way to a sunroom that opened out onto the gardens. All of those rooms were allocated for food and drink. As everyone rode a high with having participated in the gender reveal, everyone was now eager to get to the partying.

One huge table held nothing but bottles of wine, all lined up waiting to be uncorked. Many were already open. Those same black-clad people were pouring out generous glassfuls of wine to eager participants.

Ed grabbed two glasses and pressed one on Lizabeth. "It matches your dress, cheers," he said, clinking glasses together.

"Cheers," she replied.

They perused the assortment of food. There was something for everybody, food from different specialties to tempt any palate. It had all been reduced to finger food: mini tacos, tiny egg rolls, meat or vegetables wrapped in some covering, most everything was in a pastry shell or crust. All of the items were labeled and had allergen labels. It all looked delicious. She and Edgar wandered around the food area and finally found a place to sit.

They had divergent views about the nature of the event. Ed still grumbled about losing, and having lost; he declared that the entire idea of a human Rube Goldberg machine stupid. Lizabeth wanted to share how excited she had felt through the whole event and how it had gotten everyone involved.

She enjoyed that feeling. "There was a sense of community at the end. It didn't matter if it was the Pink Team or Team Blue who won in the end. As Jane said, it wasn't like we were going to change the sex of the baby. It was that we were all involved!"

Edgar didn't see it that way. "It was just way too over-the-top," he declared and put an end to the discussion. He went back for more food and a second glass of wine, which put him in a better frame of mind. Lizabeth held her tongue and didn't discuss gender-reveal parties anymore. Instead, Ed talked about his long day of work. He and the Spectre crowd had gone back to the Goulding property then discussed a joint venture.

"I think that we need to develop a sophisticated tech area to woo Silicon Valley investors, develop our own little Merton Tech area here as an alternative. Josef mentioned that one of the requirements was a good source of cheap power, which isn't normally an issue with commercial development, but we're on the grid out here and can provide that cheaper than they can over in Silicon Valley."

"Computers take extra electricity?" she asked.

"Seems they do, though I don't understand why," Edgar said dismissively and stood. "I'm going to go mingle."

"Okay. I'm still eating." She went back for a few more tidbits, then settled back to observe the cross-section of people. Some she knew, most of them looked like they were country-club types (it was the best way she could characterize them), the rich and powerful of Merton society. Lawyers, businessmen, and -women, city council members, or those with other government jobs.

* * *

"May I join you?" said a voice. Ryan Fitzwilliam had a plate on his lap. He wheeled closer.

"Of course," Lizabeth said. "Are you just now getting to the food?"

"I had a lot of people come up to congratulate me on a job well-done," he explained.

"You did a great job. I was impressed," she gushed.

"Weren't you rooting for the blue team?" Ryan asked.

"I was caught up in the excitement of the whole thing. I think Jane did an excellent job," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed as he nibbled at something on his plate. "Weren't you originally on Team Pink?"

She felt a little twist in her gut. "Yes," she confessed. "But Ed wanted me on his team, so when Jane wasn't looking, he stole a blue lanyard for me." She looked at him with a guilty face. "Don't tell anybody."

"I won't," Ryan remarked as he kept nibbling at his food.

"Have you checked out your prize?" she asked, noting he didn't wear either of his lanyards.

"Oh!" the inflection of his voice fell. "Bottles of wine," he said dismissively. "They're all bottles of wine. It's just the price point on them. I think they have one for every guest."

"That's got to be expensive. There are a couple of hundred people here!" Lizabeth hadn't known deprivation, but she was still learning how the next level up lived.

"Troy's only going to be a father once," said Ryan. "Besides, he's loaded. Unlike me."

"I thought you were…had family here," she asserted, trying to ask a delicate question.

"I am my own man," he declared. "Ex-army and while being a disability advocate is a passion, it doesn't pay much." He had an intense look on his face, so she didn't dare pursue that line of conversation.

"Is there much left to do tonight?" Lizabeth felt it was still early.

"There's always partying," Ryan suggested. "But you're right. I think it's only eight." He glanced down at his wrist, which sported a rather sophisticated outdoorsy-sort of watch.

"I wonder how long Ed will want to stay." Her voice trailed off.

"I thought you two came separately," he noted.

"We did," she replied.

"Look, _Lizabeth_." He cleaned his fingers on a napkin before he turned his chair to face her better. "I really enjoyed talking with you this afternoon."

"I did too," she replied quickly, taking in his intense gaze.

"I wondered if you wanted to go out with me?" Ryan asked.

"No!" She was caught up short. "I have a boyfriend. _Ed's_ my boyfriend." She thought that had been obvious and that he understood.

"I know, but he's kind of an arrogant SOB," he said softly, still looking at her.

Her gut twisted a little. "But he's my arrogant SOB," she whispered back, her face reddening.

"Okay," said Ryan. "Just putting it out there that I like you."

"I like you too," she replied automatically. Lizabeth looked away, out at the room, then down at her plate; she had only a few uneaten pieces left. She started to feel a little hot. "I…I…think I'm done." She stuttered. "Maybe it's time to head home. It was great meeting you."

"Great meeting you too," he replied, still gazing intently at her.

"Bye." They called to each other as she stood to leave.

Lizabeth walked around and reflected on what Ryan had said about Edgar and her immediate defense of him. Ed was as blustery as his father, though she wasn't sure _that_ was right. Ed was personable and out-going, and sometimes those people just rubbed others the wrong way, right? Besides, Ryan _liked_ her, why wouldn't he _try_ to say something _demeaning_ about her boyfriend in the hopes that she would go out with him?

She wandered around trying to find Edgar, which proved difficult given the acreage of the Metcalfe's house and the number of people inside, finally finding him talking business. "I'm ready to go." She laid a hand on his arm. "Are _you_ ready?" she asked timidly.

"Lizabeth!" He seemed shocked to see her. "Can you give me a minute?" Ed held up his hand. There was another glass of wine in it. "Tell you what, why don't you go get our coats, and we'll head out?" He fished in his pocket for his ticket.

"Okay. I'll meet you in the entranceway?" Lizabeth hinted. "I think I'm going to drive you home if that's your third glass of wine."

"I'll be okay!" He insisted, looking at the men with a grin.

"No, I think not," she remarked; she didn't wish to argue with him in front of his friends, so dutifully went to get their coats. While she waited, Charlene passed by in a group but stopped to talk, telling her friends she would catch up.

"Wasn't that just incredible!" Lizabeth exclaimed.

"_It was_. I'm so glad that I got to come," Charlene agreed.

"So what did you do? I was in the tires," she gushed. "And when they said casual dress, they really meant it! Frankly, I didn't believe them. I think Jane did an incredible job."

Charlene wore slacks and a pretty sweater. "I was at the top of a ladder and had to retrieve a ball and then toss it. Luckily, I played basketball in middle school—even if I was the shortest player!" She giggled good-naturedly. "But, are you leaving already?" Charlene asked.

"Yes, Ed and I are heading out. He's had a long day. I'm kind of tired myself," Lizabeth admitted.

"Oh…how is it with you two?" her friend asked. The happiness in her voice drained away.

"Fine," Lizabeth answered.

"You know…" Charlene slurred.

"What?"

"Liza." For some reason, her friend had adopted the affectation of calling her 'Liza,' which had never been a nickname she used. But as Lizabeth often did, she let it go. "Oh, never mind," Charlene murmured.

Her friend knew all the details about Lizabeth's relationship with Edgar. She was one of the few people who didn't like him and said so. Lizabeth took _that_ with a grain of salt because Charlene and Ed had grown up together. They had gone to high school at the same time. Charlene wasn't pretty (or pretty enough to attract him), though she dressed well. However, she didn't often attract men and would _never_ have attracted Ed's eyes. Not in high school or now.

Lizabeth didn't want to put this down to some lingering high school jealousy that Charlene harbored for Edgar Stone. With Ed dating _her_, maybe it had crushed her friend and the lingering feelings Charlene had for him. But some small part of Lizabeth wondered (but didn't pursue) Charlene's hesitancy _just then_.

"Do you think there's anything more going on tonight besides partying?" Lizabeth asked instead.

"What's wrong with partying?" Charlene murmured. "Besides, I understood there are some interesting people, actors visiting."

"Oh yeah, the LA crowd!" Lizabeth agreed. "I met a couple of them at the country club last night."

"You did! You and I need to step up our game and not have short lunches. Maybe we need to go out for dinner next week as well?"

"Sounds like a plan," she agreed. Ed came stumbling into the foyer then, and Charlene said farewell. Lizabeth looked at her phone and noticed that it had taken him twenty minutes to appear.

* * *

There were two black-coated helpers at the front who did car-key checks on people. They didn't have breathalyzers, but they did an excellent job of challenging people on the amount of alcohol consumed. And while Lizabeth wasn't able to talk Edgar into admitting he'd had too much to drink, the black-clad minions _were_. It was Lizabeth who drove them back to her apartment.

They never went to Ed's house; she had _never_ been to his house. He owned one but insisted that it was the gentlemanly thing to go to the lady's house and that single women didn't visit men. It was as though he subscribed to a set of old-fashioned rules when this was the twenty-first century. Every week on Friday night (and the occasional rare extra day, like tonight), they ended up at her apartment.

The pair made their way up to the second floor. When he slipped on one of the treads, she thought maybe he had consumed _more_ than three drinks. Usually, they watched movies snuggling on the couch at the end of their evenings together, but she wondered if he wouldn't be too tired. Edgar didn't have his car with him that night, and how was he to get home?

Lizabeth turned from hanging up their winter coats to find him just behind her and not waiting on the couch. He wrapped his arms around her for a rather prolonged kiss. "Beth," he said, when he came up for air. He had never called her that before. His hands ran down her back to her buttocks to pull her tightly against him. "_Beth_, can we forego movies tonight?"

"Yes," she agreed. They'd had some pretty intense make-out sessions on that couch, but that was as far as they had gotten. Shirts or blouses untucked with hands exploring the skin. But that was as far as it had gone in their months of dating, though she had attempted to get him off of the couch and into the bedroom. She'd been too embarrassed to ask outright, and he had never been inclined to push before.

Ed's hands moved all over her body as Lizabeth pushed his suit jacket off of his shoulders and onto the floor. He then reached up to loosen and remove his tie. "Come on," he barked, walking down the hall and pushing open the door to the master bedroom, which wasn't her room. It was the one she reserved for her parents; Lizabeth wasn't sure if she had ever mentioned that to him.

He shut the door—which seemed unnecessary—then pulled her over to the bed, sitting her down. Edgar pulled up one leg to undo the tiny clasps on her heels. The left shoe came off, but the right one gave him some trouble, and Lizabeth had to reach down and fiddle with the tiny tongue before he pulled the shoe free. Then he loomed over her, pushing her back onto the bed, all the while kissing her as his hands roamed.

Lizabeth could only think that she was to have sex finally. Her mother had seen to it that she had so few dates, that sex was one _milestone_ she had yet to achieve. Living at home had put such a cramp in her life that she was _embarrassed_ to be twenty-five and still a virgin. She knew all about sex; it was everywhere, all over the media, in movies, even in her romance novels (which were all about love but had explicit details about the act). But she couldn't help feeling more of an observer as Edgar kissed and rubbed her. He didn't say anything. She hoped he wasn't too drunk; she knew _that_ could be an issue for a man's performance.

"I'm glad," he finally said in a deep, raspy voice. "Glad we're here." He partially unbuttoned his shirt and tugged to pull it out of his waistband then sat up to undo the cuffs. "I've been 'being sensitive' for months now. It's been tough, I can tell you."

She frowned as she didn't quite understand his meaning as her thoughts were elsewhere. She was anticipating what was to come and felt a certain excitement in her limbs and around her body. Lizabeth hadn't considered conversation. She sat up on her elbows. "Being sensitive?" she said softly.

"I've had to restrain myself _a lot_," he grumbled. His shirt came off, and he turned back, pushing her skirts up.

"Ed!" She was mortified suddenly. "_Why_? Why would you have to?" she exclaimed as she attempted to pull her skirts back down. Suddenly, she felt the need to talk and not…move on.

"Because I _know_," he said, looking her in the eyes. They went from lustful and a blurred, drunken-eyed stare, to clear-enough.

"Know what?" she asked quietly, pushing herself up a little more.

"That you're a virgin; I need to make your first-time good…and all that. I have to be sensitive about…all that."

Lizabeth frowned as she felt sweat bead on her forehead and temples, and an odd and uncomfortable prickling sensation formed under her skin as she sat up further and scooted back a couple of inches. "_How_ do you know that?" she asked in an oddly deep voice.

"Your uncle told me," Ed grumbled as he moved up to kiss her neck and fondle a breast. He rubbed forcefully, attempting to peel her bra back to expose a nipple despite the dress not being unzipped.

"Uncle Edward told you?" The skin on her face went pale as her mouth hung open for a second. Her stomach churned over, and her breathing intensified—and not because of desire. "How does _he_ know?"

"I'm sure your aunt told him," he said without much concern. "Shush now. Shush," Edgar replied, still rubbing her breast.

"I can't do this," Lizabeth said, pushing at him.

"I'm ready. I'm prepared," he said as she moved away from him again.

"No!" She felt like a lamb to the slaughter.

"Look, I'll get you a ring, how's that?" he declared, pushing himself onto his arms to look down at her. He had part of his body on top of her and was pushing his knee against her thighs, trying to pry them open.

"A ring?"

"Yeah, I'll get you a ring." There was a pause as Ed leaned over to kiss her. "Tomorrow."

"No." She didn't realize how quickly she could move, but she managed to push herself away, upwards to swiftly get off of the bed and stood on the other side. "Ed, you need to leave. I can't do this; I want you to go!"

"What's wrong, Beth? I said I'd get you a ring!" He was almost yelling.

"An engagement ring?" Lizabeth asked.

"Yes," Edgar nodded as he sat up.

"I don't want to marry you!" she shouted.

"What! Why not? I thought that was obvious? That's what was going on between us," he exclaimed.

"We're just dating! I just thought we were going to have sex. But you _know_!" she moaned.

"Everybody knows," he said. He didn't sound kind.

"_Everybody_ knows? Just _leave_!" Lizabeth raised her voice, and something penetrated his alcohol-intoxicated mind. He got off of the bed and picked up his shirt, thrusting his arms into the sleeves before walking out without another word. He had a phone and a lot of money to his name. Edgar Stone could figure out how to get home.

She stood shivering in her spare room and stared around, but then moved to lean against the wall when dizziness hit. Lizabeth wondered how her first experience of sex had become awkward and raw—with a presumption of marriage. Edgar hadn't asked; he had just declared that he would get a ring as if she was expecting it. Like it was part of some bargain between them. She was trading her virginity for a marriage license. Tears fell down her cheeks as she felt confused and sad and angry and ashamed and disappointed all at once.

_He knew_. _Edgar knew_. He said everybody knew. Was it something they discussed in the Hill Café or on the streets of Merton or at the hotel bar in the evening?_ Oh! Did you hear, Lizabeth Bennet is still a virgin, and who is going to claim _that_ prize?_

She felt the long shadow of her mother over her. If only Mrs. Bennet had given an inch once in a while and let her come home later than 10 p.m. Let her not have to account for every fifteen minutes of every day. In some ways, she was so innocent (and not in the virginal sense—she read racy romance novels, she knew about sex).

But in a way, Lizabeth didn't know how to cope with people and situations because her mother had dealt with any issue, always had run interference. Somehow, her mother was _still_ interfering and controlling her life. She wouldn't have put it past Dawn Bennet to have encouraged this relationship with Edgar. That somehow, it had been prearranged between her and Uncle Ned. They were conspiring together to marry her off _appropriately_ and _correctly_ to someone Dawn hand-picked. All Lizabeth wanted was to feel normal, like everybody else.

The dizziness increased, and she slid down the wall to sit on her butt. Her knees tented under her dress. It had been an expensive one, but she didn't care right then. She laid her head down and cried as she hugged her knees. Lizabeth wondered how she was to get on with her life if her mother was still interfering even though she lived an hour and a half away. How could she face her aunt and uncle at their regular Sunday dinner the next day?

Eventually, she made it into her room and her pajamas. There would be no late-night romance reading. She curled up in a tight ball and fell asleep.

* * *

She was still miserable when she woke but was determined, on another level, not to let this affect her. Determined to be able to break away from the shadow of her mother's control.

Lizabeth considered Ed's remark about it being her uncle telling him she was a virgin and that it was probably her Aunt Chrissie who had told her uncle. But she didn't think that her aunt would share that information. She thought that given that Dawn and Edward were brother and sister, it was something that her mother had said in passing. "Take special care of her, you know Lizabeth is still a virgin." And since Uncle Ned didn't have daughters, he must buy into a double standard for women; Lizabeth didn't know for sure.

She needed to talk to _somebody_. At first, she tried Charlene's number but didn't get through; she was probably recovering from the party the night before. Then she recalled Friday and her drink with Jane and Mary. Lizabeth decided to go to the hotel bar; she had told Mary that she would come.

In some ways, Mary Abel was a sitting duck, waiting for people to find her. She had no choice if people wanted to come over to the piano to speak to her since that was her job. But it meant that Lizabeth knew where to find her. Mary also had the type of job where people came to confess their woes. It was like being a barista or a bartender—to be a lounge lizard singer was similar.

Most hotels with pianos had a huge black grand piano in pride of place. But this configuration was different. Lizabeth didn't know if it was for space or decorating reasons, but a small upright piano had been built into the end of the bar so that they were all one unit. The hotel did a long Sunday brunch service, which was always busy. Guests shuffled in, but local Merton families also made a habit of coming in to eat, taking grandma out, or giving mom a break from cooking.

Sunday brunch music was different from dinner music, which was different entirely from late-night music. Mary played slightly familiar tunes. Ones that tickled the memories across multiple generations and made people say 'oh,' though they couldn't ever quite place them.

She nodded when Lizabeth sat next to her with a plate of food. Mary rarely sang. Currently, she was playing a composition that sounded a little Disneyish, a little Broadywayish, perhaps a little classic rock all mixed together. When she finished, she put her hands in her lap and looked at her audience. Nobody ever clapped, but she was like any performer who sought accolades, even if there were none, then she turned to Lizabeth.

"I heard it was quite the _thing_," Mary commented. She poured herself a drink from a pitcher of water in front of her.

"It was," Lizabeth agreed. They talked about the Metcalfe's party for a few minutes while she nibbled her breakfast. Mary played while Lizabeth ate.

Someone came up to request a tune; Mary dutifully nodded. As soon as they walked away, she remarked, "I never take requests. I think Mrs. Long asks every week. When will she ever learn?"

It was '_brunch,'_ which meant that people came as early as eight to eat (these were usually the guests), but some people came for their meal closer to lunchtime. By the time Lizabeth had gotten through her indifferent night of sleep, a shower, and dressed; she hadn't arrived until after ten. Then she and Mary spent the better part of an hour talking both because Mary was working and because there was a lot to discuss about the Metcalfe's wild gender-reveal party. Lizabeth explained about the lanyards, Team Pink and Team Blue, the various stations, and the final race to the finish.

The crowds in the hotel began to thin. She was thankful that there were fewer people around the piano then. A waitress cleared away her plate, but Lizabeth went back for a small plate of pineapple, which she was picking at when she leaned over and asked, "can I talk to you?"

"I thought we were talking," said Mary, who was pouring herself another glass of water.

"Well," replied Lizabeth with a deep sigh.

"Oh," said Mary. There was something that passed over her face as she realized how embarrassed Lizabeth was and that she had a sensitive subject to share. Mary's hands went down to the keyboard and began to tickle the keys lightly, but the tune was soft. Lizabeth didn't feel that she was being put off, but that Mary was creating a smokescreen so that she couldn't be overheard.

"It's about Edgar and me, after we went home last night," she began. Mary nodded and kept playing her little tune that wasn't a tune. It didn't seem to be going anywhere or appear to have an ending. Lizabeth had the idea that it wouldn't end until her story ended. "Ed wanted to have sex last night."

"Yes," it was encouragement.

"And I did too." There was a sound Mary made as though to ask _what the problem_ was? "I've never had sex before," she confessed in the softest whisper.

Both eyebrows on Mary's face rose. "Was it awful? Were you scared?"

"No, that's not the issue. He offered to marry me in return for my virginity."

Lizabeth, whose mother had put her through both piano and voice lessons, could hear the tiniest pause before Mary continued playing again. The tune was also a little different.

"Why…_why_ are you dating Edgar Stone?" Mary asked.

"He asked me out," was Lizabeth's immediate response, though the question chilled her a little.

"Would you date any man who asked you out?" Mary asked next.

"No…I don't know," she admitted, honestly. "I've dated so few men."

"And you've really, _never_?" The pianist drew out the last word.

"No! I don't know if I've ever explained about my mother?"

"Not really," said Mary. She sounded both interested and bored. A fine line to walk, but one people in her position had used that pulled out information.

"I have a helicopter mother. If you looked up the phrase and it was a picture dictionary, it would be _her_ photo," she quipped.

"She didn't go on dates with you?" her friend asked in a half-joking, half-serious manner.

"Almost," Lizabeth laughed, "almost."

"Can I ask a question?" Mary raised a single eyebrow.

Lizabeth stared down at her dish of pineapple. She'd only managed one bite and realized she was just cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces with the side of her fork. "Yes." After all, _she_ had brought up the topic to Mary.

"You said you wanted to have sex, too," Mary began.

"Yeah," she answered quickly. "I thought we had a relationship and were progressing to the next step. But Edgar said that everybody knows about me, though he was perfectly willing to lift my virginity."

"_I_ didn't know," Mary remarked. "I'm not sure anyone in my orbit knew, so don't let that bother you. All-in-all he sounds like he's a jerk. But do you think you're still boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"I don't know," Lizabeth answered. "I don't _think_ so."

Mary kept playing that endless tune as they looked at each other, and as Lizabeth thought. What had she wanted in her relationship with Edgar Stone, III? She wanted a little experience. She wanted to know what the rest of the world had, but she didn't love him; there was no love between them. Lizabeth felt not the slightest modicum of love for Ed, a rather grim realization as she listened to Mary's tune. She didn't pick up her fork and abuse her pineapple pieces anymore. Edgar had been flattering and had been something to do on Friday nights, but that had been all.

"No," she said with compunction and assurance. "I never loved him. It's over." She pushed the fruit plate away from her. The song came to an end.

"I'm off at noon today," Mary noted.

Lizabeth wondered if the 'lounge lizard queen' had such a well-developed sense of time that she knew twelve was fast approaching.

"_Lizabeth_!" She turned to find Jane Sweet standing beside her with various people just beyond, indicating that they had come together. "I've never seen you here on Sunday morning. Did you just get here? Would you like to join us?"

As her last name implied, Jane was sweet and friendly and would invite a person into a group even if, _maybe_, they were not wanted.

"Lizabeth, nice to see you, my lady." The man next to Jane held out his hand. "When we met on Friday, I don't think we were properly introduced. Charles Lee."

"Lizabeth Bennet," she answered, taking his hand. She looked at the others. William was there, as were the two women from the country club retiring room. Jane was a gracious hostess who introduced them. The women's names were Caroline Bingley and Amanda Grantley.

"We've met several times over the course of the weekend," Caroline nodded.

"I don't think we've formally met," said William, who held out his hand. "William Darcy." Lizabeth found her hand clasped in a large, warm one. "Do join us," he reiterated Jane's invitation.

"I've already eaten," she asserted.

"Please sit with us then," Jane pressed. Lizabeth didn't feel inclined, but couldn't find the words to refuse.

Mary suddenly said, "It's noon. I'm off. It wouldn't hurt to talk and not go home _alone_." No one else caught the underlying meaning, but Lizabeth thought that her friend was hinting that she ought to stay and not go brood about her situation with Edgar. She was better off in the company of others.

"Okay," Lizabeth agreed.

The party settled comfortably in a booth with their various choices of food before them. Lizabeth was gently tucked in between Jane and Caroline in the middle since she didn't need to get up and down to go back to the buffet line. Jane had only met the others the previous day, but seemed on good terms with everyone already. You could obviously meet people and become friends quickly. Like with Mary, who Lizabeth had come to confess to (who had been both philosophical and counseling). Was it Mary's nature or the nature of her job that people confessed things to her? She wanted to take Mary's sympathy at face value.


	6. Chapter 6

William, on the end, could see Lizabeth clearly from where he sat. She really was desirable. He hadn't been so overwhelmed by her beauty the night before, but it affected him even more today. She wore a green sweater that seemed to emphasize her perfect skin; her hair was down again. He wanted to touch it and was glad he had Charles and Jane between them. He was also pleased that she had a boyfriend as he had some scruples when it came to women (not many, but he did have a few). Seeing a woman who was dating someone else was crossing a line.

A movement made his eyes swerve over to catch Caro's gaze. She was staring pointedly at him. One eyebrow was arched, and she moved her gaze very briefly in Lizabeth's direction as if to ask about his interest. He thought he had been discreet, but she _always_ knew. Caroline was probably tired of cleaning up the wreckage when he tired of a girlfriend, date, or lover.

Lizabeth talked as the others ate. Mainly, she asked questions. "Are you all actors?"

"No," Caroline answered. "Chuck and Mandy are the actors. William and I are producers—behind the scenes."

"What does a producer do?" she asked, looking at Caro. He could see her face in profile. William wondered if she could sense his eyes on her. Everyone asked what a producer did. They usually assumed it was about money and being bossy when it wasn't. There were so many details involved. People assumed that producers were on an equal level with directors when producers _hired_ the directors.

Caroline had her patented two-minute speech about what they did and answered her. Then Lizabeth countered with more questions about their individual jobs. "And both of you are?" She turned her eyes from her companion on the one side to look across the table at him.

"Yes," both William and Caroline said in unison.

"Is, like, _he_ your boss?" she asked next, turning to Caroline. "Or do you share responsibilities, are co-producers?"

Caro looked across at him before she answered. "I did learn the ropes as William's assistant. But we're equals on this new production."

"What are you working on?" Lizabeth asked.

Before William or Caroline could answer, Charles let out a little laugh. "I only seem to do period pieces, Lizabeth, don't you know?" William thought she wasn't as familiar with Charles' work as his ego believed.

His friend continued, "it's Downton Abbey, but with a California twist. Think of a rich California family in the Twenties." He flashed his actor's grin, and Lizabeth laughed. Charles couldn't help flirting with any pretty face. When William turned his eyes away from Lizabeth's, he noticed that Charles wasn't looking at the figure across that semi-circular booth from him; Charles was gazing at Jane Sweet who looked alert, amused, and interested as she sat tucked next to him.

He wasn't sure what had gone on between Charles and Jane after the party, the night before, and the extent of this infatuation. Charles was the first in the lobby when they agreed to meet at noon. William had been surprised that Jane Sweet was there as well. She was a local and perhaps had merely driven over. It didn't mean she had spent the night with his friend, but maybe she had.

"What roles are you to play?" Lizabeth asked. Her face was animated. The producer in him mentally stepped away from their conversation as he watched rather than listened to Charles and Amanda discuss their roles in this upcoming drama: _Bella Montaña_. Charles was to be the son and heir. Amanda was to play a sister and not a love interest in this story—a wild, impetuous, and resentful sister.

William sat with his face unmoving, not engaged in the conversation as he watched the other five—though his eyes were mostly on Lizabeth. Even Caroline, who was often just as snarky as William about their work, was engaged in the discussion. But everyone was interested in talking about the proposed American equivalent to that highly popular British drama.

"Lizabeth!" A voice cut through the laughter and discussion, and six pairs of eyes turned to stare at a figure that stood on the unadorned side of their table. Lizabeth's boyfriend stared at her.

"Edgar!" she cried.

William could hear the surprise in their guest's voice. There was something else, some other emotion he couldn't name.

"I've been searching for you," accused the boyfriend. Lizabeth's eyes were focused entirely on the man looming over their table. William had the idea that she wasn't happy to see him. _Uncomfortable_, given the way she fidgeted, just slightly in the booth as she moved closer to Caroline.

"You weren't home when I came by, and your uncle and aunt didn't have any idea where you were." It was an accusation.

"Why would they?" she asked.

"I thought you always checked in with them," he answered. William watched her get angry then, that a grown woman needed to account for her movements. She didn't answer, because the boyfriend spoke again. "But your uncle discovered that you were _here_," he explained.

"How did he know?" her anger increased—her face reddening.

"I guess he could see that your phone was here." Edgar Stone didn't appear bothered by his explanation.

"What!" she cried. William watched her bristle about being hunted down. She sat up a little straighter, as though she found some inner strength to calm herself.

"I need to speak to you," the man demanded then.

William would speak for her, even if she appeared to be calming as her color faded. He noticed that even Caroline had ruffled feathers. He wondered how the always-gallant Charles was feeling in the face of this man's insults. After all, Charles was the romantic hero. William felt inclined to see the man off of the hotel's premises.

"Okay," Lizabeth agreed, just like that. He thought she was stronger, not so biddable. But this was not _his_ battle to fight; it was between a man and a woman. You could never tell with boyfriends and girlfriends. William had learned not to get involved in _those_ dramas.

She was very polite and turned to Caroline and Amanda. "If you would excuse me?" Then she turned to her right. "Jane, thank you for inviting me to breakfast." They all realized that Lizabeth was not coming back.

Was William disappointed? He wouldn't admit that as she scooted out of the booth and walked away with Ed, the boyfriend. He thought the couple would leave, so his eyes trailed them, waiting for them to walk out the doors, but that bastard of a boyfriend merely took them to an empty table not too far away. Ed sat down, and Lizabeth hesitated before she took the chair opposite.

The voices were low enough that William couldn't hear what was said, but he could read body language. She was uncomfortable; she was embarrassed. Her cheeks were colored. She did nothing to control the hair that fell in her face as she talked to Ed, the presumptuous boyfriend. _He_ spoke rapidly, often with his fists clenched and waving and as the color never quite left her cheeks. _An argument then_. It appeared that they had had an argument the night before which had unnerved Mr. Edgar Whoever, and he had come to claim his girl. But Lizabeth wasn't conceding or placating him the way he wished.

Then he saw something so unexpected that William figured he was staring with bug eyes. The man produced a tiny box and opened it. A jewelry box: _a ring box._ Was he proposing marriage in a hotel bar? With fifty or a hundred people around them as witnesses?

That prize was placed prominently in front of Lizabeth. More words were spoken. The color faded from her cheeks.

"No," she answered.

William could read that much on her lips. Her answer: _no_. She was turning Ed, the idiot, down as the box was pushed forward a few inches. More words were said.

"No," was her reply again.

Edgar got angry, and his hands splayed on the table on either side of the box. One of them drew back into a fist and thumped. William could hear, "think about it," drift his way as those hands pushed him to standing. The boyfriend left the box and the ring in front of Lizabeth and walked away.

"Well…I'm wondering if we need to write _that_ scene into our latest production," Caroline quipped.

William looked over at his assistant. Actually, he needed to stop thinking about her that way since they were working in tandem on _Bella Montaña_. He also realized that everyone at their table had done nothing for the past fifteen minutes, all the knives and forks were down. Even the mimosa glasses on the tabletop weren't in anyone's hands. Everyone had watched Lizabeth and Ed's drama.

"It was rather compelling," William agreed.

"Poor Lizabeth," murmured Jane.

"How long have they seen each other?" Amanda asked.

"Not that long, as far as I understand," said Jane. "Several months."

"She wasn't in love with him then?" Mandy pressed.

"I can't speak for Lizabeth. We've been acquaintance who've become friends lately," Jane explained. "But I only got the sense that they were casually dating. I'm sure it's taken her quite by surprise to have him ask her to marry him if that truly was a marriage proposal."

"He's not the most romantic fellow," Charles quipped. "He seemed more angry than in love."

"I agree," said William.

"Do you think we ought to go rescue her?" Caro suggested. They all turned to stare at that lone table. Lizabeth was gazing down at the box in front of her. "Are you good enough friends to talk to her?"

Caroline was looking directly at Jane. The young woman seemed concerned as if there was quite a weight on her shoulders. The expectations of _her_ being Lizabeth Bennet's best friend and having to console her seemed too much to ask, but Jane Sweet wouldn't say so; William thought that it was not in the lady's character. Jane liked to believe she was a good friend. Maybe Jane just needed a few minutes to warm up to the idea.

"I think, for sure," Mandy piped up, "we shouldn't _all go_ and speak to her."

"Yes!" Jane readily agreed to _that_ assessment.

"Having five people come over and quiz her would be making a mountain out of a molehill. Though a marriage proposal is not a molehill," said Charles.

"Have none of you the backbone?" cried Caro. "Amanda, if you will let me out?"

Mandy dutifully scooted over. Caroline got out of the booth carrying her half-drunk mimosa, and William watched as she went to sit with Lizabeth Bennet. He couldn't look away when she sat down. The box had disappeared from the table by that time, but Lizabeth looked up, surprised when Caroline spoke to her. She glanced over at the booth, and William was sure he looked guilty. He was sure they _all_ did and turned away. He looked across at Mandy before glancing at Charles and Jane.

"I suppose we're done?" he asked.

"Yeah," Charles agreed.

The four of them stood to leave. Charles focused on Jane again. William realized that they still hadn't decided on plans for returning to LA (and whether anyone was riding back with him). However, he had at least another day in town because of family responsibilities. But then his phone buzzed, and he looked down to see a text notification from Caroline.

_Bring me a mimosa._

_S_he already had one, but it would fulfill his curiosity to discover what was going on with Lizabeth. He went to get one from the bar.

The two of them weren't where he had last seen them. Caroline had moved them to a more secluded table. She was being a good listener: another part of the job. Sometimes you had to command as a producer. Sometimes you had to sit and listen. Lizabeth was talking in a very soft voice, and he couldn't hear the tale as he approached.

"Caroline!" he said in a projected voice, to announce his presence. Lizabeth stopped speaking.

Caro looked up, "thanks, William. It's for Lizabeth."

"How are you?" he asked, handing it over. "We couldn't help but notice that something _uncomfortable_ happened." He couldn't think of any other way to put it. He wasn't a writer, not really. The most he did was edit scripts from time to time.

"It's been a difficult day," Lizabeth said to him. "Thank you for the drink. Caroline insisted."

"I'm sure it will calm you down," he said. There was nothing to learn. "I'll say goodbye." He supposed Caroline would tell him the details later, but as William walked up to his hotel room, he wondered if she would.

* * *

Lizabeth couldn't call and say she was sick to avoid Sunday dinner at the Gardiners. That morning, Edgar had told her that Uncle Edward had told him where she was. Ned and Chrissie must know that something was going on between them, but she didn't want to discuss it. She went intending to do her best to avoid any mention of what had occurred in the last twenty-four hours.

She only wanted to talk about the Metcalfe's party and how much fun it had been. There had been that sense of joy when the fireworks broke in the sky and that man, William Darcy, had twirled her in his arms as they had shared a moment, strangers yes, but shared a moment of collective joy in the dark. She had never experienced anything like that. Spontaneous joy.

How did her life become so complicated since that point at the party? She was working on stretching boundaries and defining herself and figuring out who Lizabeth Todd Bennet was (her middle name _was_ her father's first name). But she had never considered becoming Lizabeth _Stone_. She had been startled and surprised and overwhelmed by the events in her second bedroom and then at the hotel.

Edgar had outlined everything for her when he gave her the ring. He would buy a house down the street from the Gardiners and his parents. He didn't exactly call her a trophy wife but said that she would _never need anything_, never want for anything, never need to do _anything_.

Lizabeth assumed that she wouldn't need a job, but to her ears, it sounded as if she would never be _allowed_ an occupation; there wouldn't be any career that she would be permitted. She would be told to leave the Registry Office job. If the ideal library job became available, she was sure Edgar would veto it. Her only career would be to furnish the house and work on giving birth to Edgar Stone, IV, and any other children who came their way.

Lizabeth was smart; she knew that. But just because she didn't have a particular next step outlined, didn't mean she had to take _this one_ and become Mrs. Stone. She had repeatedly told Edgar no, which had made him angrier and angrier until he said Lizabeth needed to calm down, and take the ring home, and think about it. (_She_ needed to calm down? Lizabeth thought it was _Ed_ who was angry.) He left her with his prize and stormed off, saying he would call her after dinner.

She wondered if her uncle approved? Had Edgar asked Uncle Edward for permission to marry her? No one at the Gardiner's house mentioned the elephant in the room when she arrived or during dinner. But there was a sense of anticipation when she walked in as if she was bringing news. Within five minutes, she was convinced that if he hadn't formally asked her uncle, he had at least strongly hinted that he was going to propose.

She didn't rise to any bait and talked exclusively about the Metcalfe party. Any time Lizabeth came close to mentioning a word which _seemed_ to indicate that she had good news to share, she felt as if her uncle and aunt were leaning towards her as though they expected her to say '_and Edgar asked me to marry him_!'

At one point, her Cousin Scott declared, "this is just ridiculous," asked to be excused, and took off. _He_ could skip Sunday dinners. _Lizabeth_ wasn't allowed. She had to stay, so her mother wouldn't drive over and make an appearance. Lizabeth wanted to do everything to prevent Dawn coming to Merton right then. Usually, Aunt Chrissie wasn't pushy, but perhaps she was caught up in the idea of a wedding (she had no daughters) as she finally asked, "how else has your weekend gone, Lizabeth?"

"It's been a hectic," she admitted, considering her trip to the Hilton, the talk with Mary, and then her interesting discussion with the LA crowd. "I decided to go out to eat this morning."

"Yes!" Her aunt was a little over-eager. Uncle Ned leaned forward.

"Did you know that there are some producers here from LA scouting Merton as a potential site for a TV series?" It was almost comical, the disappointed look on her uncle and aunt's face, and would have been funny if Lizabeth felt humorous.

"No," said Uncle Ned.

"They're thinking of using Merton to film a new TV show. I didn't get too many of the details."

"And Friday was…okay?" Aunt Chrissie asked.

"Actually," said Lizabeth.

"Yes?" Both Uncle Edward and Aunt Chrissie prompted.

"That's where I met those LA types. It was at the country club," said Lizabeth. Again there was disappointment from her family.

"I don't recall Edgar saying he met those people," said her uncle.

"Ed abandoned me because he met some business people. He wasn't there when I ran into them. But they were at the country club too," she explained.

"Ed abandoned you for business interests?" said Uncle Ned.

"Yes, there were some people there from a software company, and we joined forces for dinner. They spent so much time talking business that Ed eventually just saw me off in a taxi," she explained.

"But you saw Ed just the next day," Chrissie pointed out.

"Yes, but he was busy most of Saturday, again with business. I think it was related. We drove separately. I didn't see much of him at the party. We didn't even end up on the same team. Well…we did when he refused to be on Team Pink, and he stole a lanyard for me so I could be on Team Blue with him."

"I _guess_ that is sort of romantic," said her aunt, though she sounded disappointed.

Lizabeth hoped she'd been discouraging enough, and found she had. There were no other hints or questions about what she and Ed had done together. And there were no other direct questions about whether Edgar had found her Sunday afternoon. She claimed fatigue because of the party and left to go home to bed.

Though there was an unfinished romance novel by her bed, Lizabeth only managed a page before she heard the sound of a text.

_You have to marry me. I want you_

She wasn't sure how to respond to such a text. Edgar hadn't even bothered to call. She shut the sound notifications off on her phone, turned out the light, and fell asleep.

* * *

On Monday, she woke before her alarm and lay in bed. Lizabeth thought about her up-coming day. She recalled that she had promised the then-unknown and disgruntled man that she would be on-time, if not _early_ on Monday. Now she knew that his name was William Darcy. It was a good thing she'd gone to bed early and had gotten a decent night's sleep given yesterday's drama. Altogether, Lizabeth was surprised she had slept as well as she did.

She could get in and make sure the computer was booted and logged on by the time William showed up. After running into him so many times that weekend, and even having brunch with him on Sunday, Lizabeth wondered if they weren't becoming acquainted. Did she like him a little better? They had shared that moment of joy on Saturday. He was an odd man, different from others she knew, but she also didn't know a great cross-section of men and didn't know _any_ Hollywood types or even film or stage people.

She arrived about 7:35, far earlier than she'd intended as traffic was light. Sometimes, leaving ten minutes earlier made quite a difference in the number of cars on the road. She turned on the office lights and went into the backroom to brew a pot of coffee.

Lizabeth thought she heard a cat meowing frantically.

The sounds of a cat in distress seemed to come from _inside_ the walls. She couldn't explain how a cat could be stuck there. At first, she imagined that a cat had gotten into the ceiling, and had fallen through to get wedged in the walls. But then she wondered if it wasn't outside.

She went out to check, walking around the windowless side of the recording office. It shared one side with a parking lot, but on the other was a vast three-story parking garage. The structure sat right up against their office with a walkway in between. The recording office windows looked into the garage.

She walked to the back corner of the building where there was a utility closet on the outside wall of their office. Lizabeth snooped around and discovered a hatch with a sign above it that read 'Night Deposit.' It was an opening similar to those at the library, that allowed people to return books after the library was closed. This one had a lock, but it looked like it had been forced as there were scratches around it. As Lizabeth stared at the hatch, she could hear the cries of a cat coming from inside.

In the days before there were electronic files, the office must have allowed people to drop off documents of note after-hours in that overnight bin. The access on the _outside_ had been left in place, though to Lizabeth's knowledge, there was no access on the _inside_. When the city had renovated the building, they must have boarded the inside access door up. But she stood on her toes and pulled down on the handle. She found that the lock _had_ been jimmied. Using her cell phone's flashlight, she peered inside and saw orange fur through the small crack.

She ran back to the front door, let herself back in, and shut and locked the door as it still wasn't opening time. Lizabeth called Shirley, one of the facilities people for the downtown civic buildings. She preferred Shirley to Larry, who was older, grumpy, and likely just to tell her to ignore the kitten's cries and hope it wouldn't smell too bad when it died. But Lizabeth was confident that Shirley _would_ help. She was in luck.

"There's a cat stuck in the wall, a kitten!" Lizabeth cried when Shirley answered.

"Where?" she asked.

"In an old night deposit. The inside of the access bin is blocked. We _have_ to rescue it," she exclaimed. "Can you come? We might have to take the wall out."

"I'll come," Shirley agreed.

As soon as she hung up, Lizabeth started pulling items off of the shelves and placing them on the tiny table in the break room. Then she got up on the counter to look at how the shelves were mounted: they rested on pins but were seated firmly. She had to maneuver her shoulder underneath to lift up one end to be able to get it down. The noises she made as she worked made the creature cry all the more.

There were the sounds of pounding on the outer door, and Lizabeth went to answer it. Shirley was outside with a huge toolbox and a shoulder bag, but Doug Morris was there as well.

His eyes flew back and forth between Shirley and Lizabeth. "What's going on?"

"There's a cat stuck in the wall," she explained as she unlocked the door, relocking it. "We're going to get him out. He's back here," she led them to the break room.

Doug asked, "how did it get there?"

"I can only guess that someone put it there. He's in an old night deposit, and I could see scratches on the lock."

Shirley and Doug took in the state of that small employee break room. "What are you going to do?" asked Doug. He leaned against the table and looked at Shirley, who was examining the wall as though there might be some hidden latch that she might simply press to make the drywall swing out on hinges without ruining it. Frantic cries came through the wall as they talked.

"I say there's no way _but_ to remove the drywall, and I have no authority to do that. I'm supposed to repair, not destroy," said Shirley.

"Do you suppose there's any way to get there through the ceiling?" Doug asked, pointing up at the tiled ceiling. Shirley spent a few minutes pulling them aside and poking her body in to look around with a flashlight.

"No good. There's no way to get into the wall from above," said Shirley.

They made one attempt at getting the kitten through the outside of the deposit, speculating on whose arm was the skinniest. But it seemed that whenever they opened the flap, it set the kitten off howling. The flap was also designed to prevent anyone from reaching inside to pull out something that had been placed there.

"We're going to have to take the drywall off," Lizabeth decided.

"_Again_, I can't authorize that," Shirley cautioned. "It would have to be on your head."

"I'm sure the Judge would understand. Doesn't Mimi have a cat? I would rather ask forgiveness than permission. Do you have a saw or a hatchet?"

Shirley pulled out tools and handed them to Lizabeth, giving directions, but no help as she and Doug watched Lizabeth saw into the drywall. Finding a pocket between the studs, she peered into it with a flashlight, then pulled the drywall off with a small crowbar. Shirley quipped that the crowbar was called a 'catspaw.'

In short order, Lizabeth had removed the drywall from the backside of the night deposit. There should have been a handle on that side too, but it had been removed to place the drywall over it. The catspaw was used to pry open the bin. Doug was helping by then as there was a frantic chorus of meows. They thought the kitten might expire before they could get him out.

Shirley held the flashlight as Doug helped to pry open the bin. Inside was a bedraggled, orange kitten. He protested when Lizabeth reached in to pull him out and held him against her chest. He was exceedingly cold to the touch. The kitten squirmed now that he was free. His detention in the night deposit had not been pleasant, and the kitten had a poor opinion of human beings since one had put him there. Even though three had got him out, he wasn't accepting of their help just then. Lizabeth held him tightly as she tried to warm him and pet him in an attempt to soothe the creature.

"That was a much more exciting Monday morning than usual," Doug quipped, laughing as the kitten squirmed in her hands. The creature finally seemed to be calming the more he warmed up.

"Shirley, can you get my coat?" Lizabeth asked. (She had removed it the better to tackle the drywall.) Shirley handed it to her and tucked it around the cat as best she could. The kitten finally complied with her mental note to stop wiggling. Shirley had her phone out and had taken pictures to document the process as they had destroyed the wall, but now she took pictures of Lizabeth with the kitten in her arms.

"I'll share this with Janice!" cried Shirley. Janice was a secretary over at city hall. "She'll get a kick out of it."

"I hope I don't get fired over this," Lizabeth remarked. "But I couldn't let him die in there. I suppose I should have a vet check him out too. You know, Charlene's office is right next to a vet. You should send me one of those pictures, and I can ask her about it. Maybe I can bring this little guy over at lunchtime today. What time is it anyway?"

Lizabeth was surprised to hear that it wasn't even 8:30 yet, roughly when the Judge was due to arrive. She would confess everything—that it had been her initiative to rip open the walls and to allow a member of the public behind the counter (which was _very_ against the rules).

There was knocking on the front door. "Oh my gosh, I forgot to open up! I haven't even turned anything on!" She had at least turned on the overhead lights. "Doug, you'll have to leave the employee area before the Judge gets in."

Lizabeth, with the cat still in her hands, made her way to the front door. There seemed to be a crowd of people there, including a tall man. It was then that she remembered her reasons for coming in early: William Darcy wanted to use the proprietary computer terminal, and she had promised to have it ready for him. But it seemed Janice had told half of city hall about the cat in the wall and everyone had come to see. When she got to the door, Janice demanded to see the kitten, and even one of the men on the city council wanted a look.

The cat protested vociferously when hands grabbed him out of her arms. She passed over her coat, saying, "Keep him warm! It'll keep him quiet!"

Someone exclaimed, "it's not a _he_, it's a _she_! Lizabeth, you've given birth to a daughter!" There was a lot of laughter as the tiny kitten was passed around.

"What's going on?" William asked. "You promised to open early today. I need to get on the road back to LA. I came with my thumb drive for those files."

She was taken aback as it seemed obvious to her what was going on. She pulled a long strand of hair out of her face, reached up to touch the top of her head, and realized that she had dust and other junk in her hair and probably looked a mess.

"There was a kitten stuck in the wall when I came to work. _That's_ why everyone else is here." Lizabeth pointed at the group who were still exclaiming about the kitten.

"I hate cats," he said. "Is the computer on?"

"I never got around to turning the computer on, but I'll do that right now." She turned away, angry that he couldn't understand the overall situation and see the forest for the trees—that it was only _his needs_ just then. She powered on the computer and stared at it, knowing it would be many minutes for it to boot and connect before she could enter the password.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: posting a wee bit early as I need to go move a college student out of dorm due to virus. **Stay Well Everyone**. No, doesn't mean an extra chapter this week.

* * *

William looked at Lizabeth as she turned away from him; he could tell she was annoyed and angry. He felt the same. He had come for those files, to be sure, but he had come carefully dressed. He knew he was good-looking, and emphasized it by wearing an expensive, tailored shirt and suit, and had taken the time to reflect on the image in the mirror. William had intended to do a little flirting that morning.

Lizabeth had dumped the boyfriend from the hints that Caro had shared before she returned to Los Angeles. Surely Lizabeth must be on the rebound and could use some consoling, and he was just the man for the job. He had gotten up early, checked his calendar, and rearranged a few items intending to stay another day, and possibly another _night_. Lizabeth was beautiful, and he thought that he would be good as a shoulder to lean on after witnessing that idiot Ed's actions.

But when he had arrived, not precisely at eight (though he said he would be early), he had been surprised to find the doors locked. Within minutes other people came up to try the doors as well. They all consulted each other, talking rapidly. He didn't bother to listen to the topic; he only wondered if maybe she was more upset about breaking up with her boyfriend, what with that bungled public marriage proposal, and hadn't come into work. Had he misread her? Perhaps she had cared for the bastard? William shuddered at the idea of anyone genuinely caring for such a selfish and conceited man.

When it hit 8:20 a.m. and Lizabeth finally opened the doors to let everyone in; he was impatient and angry. His morning hadn't played out as envisioned. He was surprised to find her with a streak of dirt on her face and some sort of powder dusting her hair. Her clothes were disheveled. William didn't know what she'd been up to. There was an exchange about a cat and a wall, but he didn't understand what had happened or her role in the undertaking.

Lizabeth Bennet was neither so upset that she couldn't come to work nor was she on the rebound and wishing for company and a one-night stand with him because _he_ had chosen to stay in town an extra day. Instead, she had been crawling around in an attic to rescue a cat, not waiting for William to console her!

He ended up frustrated and took it out on her. Once the terminal was online, he had to call her back over to help recreate his search from Thursday. While he was still at the computer, the Judge walked in. Metcalfe took the circus of people in the recording office in stride and started talking to one of the city council members. But when a reporter for the Merton Daily showed up, William decided it was time to leave. He couldn't quite determine _why_ he was so annoyed about this turn of events. Perhaps his pride had been wounded. He had come thinking he could catch her on the rebound, and instead found her the center of attention with half the town in attendance.

He didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

He brooded as he drove off, attempting to decide what to do next. He had put off going back to LA. Since he had the files, he decided that he would, at least, follow through and call on his Aunt Catherine.

* * *

The Fitzwilliam family had lived in California for one hundred and fifty years. William's great, great grandparents had settled near Merton before it was a town, having purchased a massive piece of land. They had held onto it for over one hundred years. But William's grandfather had gotten greedy as well as bowing to pressure from his children who didn't like the idea of keeping the land in the family for the next generation. They asked that it be divided amongst the three of them: William's mother, his Aunt Catherine, and his Uncle Clifford.

A vast section was first sold to the town to fuel Grandfather Fitzwilliam's coffers before the remaining land was then split between the three heirs. The western part went to Catherine, the area south of town went to Cliff, and the area east of town went to William's mother, Anita. His mother and his uncle sold theirs during the rising real estate boom at the end of the last century. Neither of them invested the money they received wisely.

Catherine still had her land primarily because she had married someone who had a head on his shoulders. William had loved and respected his Uncle Lewis, a man who had served as a Judge in the county. But Lewis Deburg developed dementia in his later life. When he was no longer capable of giving advice, Catherine proved no longer capable of acting rationally. Her property was frittered away as she didn't have a head for business, just like her siblings. Her only way of paying her bills was to sell property every five years or so to replenish her bank account. She was slowly running out of money, which meant that her only child, Anne, would have no inheritance whenever Catherine died.

Anne Deburg hadn't done anything with her life. She had chronic health problems that held her back, and she never worked besides showing an interest in the local town (an interest she shared with her mother). _That_ didn't pay the bills. Anne tried investing money, but she only seemed to put her money into local business ventures. William had to admire her for the sentiment, though stocks would have paid better. But Anne's investments weren't the smartest, and she often lost more than she made.

Uncle Cliff had had two sons. Ryan wasn't the favorite. Jonathan, the oldest, turned out to be a wastrel; the sort who could do no wrong in his father's eyes despite Ryan showing he had a head on his shoulders. The brothers were contrasts; one a playboy, the other a hard worker. Clifford favored his oldest son, blaming everybody but his son for Jonathan's irresponsible behavior. When Jon died of a drug overdose, Cliff considered it a homicide and spent a lot of time (and a great deal of money) attempting to pin Jon's death on _someone_. He refused to accept that it was an accident or to find fault in his son or his son's behavior.

Uncle Clifford died of a broken heart as much as it was said that he died of a massive heart attack because he never got over his son's death. It was tragic that Ryan never got the accolades from his father for everything he did in the army (before he was wounded in combat and lost the use of his legs).

William knew that he would need to support himself, though he took what money was left to him by his parents to start his production company. The money _had_ helped and allowed him to start a rung up from other people in the business (and it _was_ a competitive business). But he was also a storyteller, even if he was a visual storyteller and not a writer, and he had always wanted to tell Ryan's story. He felt fiercely loyal to both of his cousins; Anne and Ryan were his only family.

* * *

William wasn't _expected_ at his Aunt Catherine's house, but he was always a welcome guest. When he explained that he had remained in town because of her property issue, it was deemed a valid excuse, and wasn't questioned.

"We must go out to dinner," his aunt declared. "I've barely had time to speak to you. What with Troy and Mimi's nonsense taking center stage."

"A baby is not nonsense," Anne remarked. William thought his cousin was looking well, given her health. Anne had been one of the few people in town who had turned down the Metcalfe's invitation. She said she couldn't go because her immune system wouldn't have handled being exposed to so many people. Plus the food would irritate her symptoms—what little she could eat of it.

Catherine insisted that they go _out_ to celebrate, though he wasn't sure what they were celebrating beyond his being in town for the first time in many months. He should have guessed, however, after he opened the door to Nicholl's Restaurant that Jade and Jewel Webb would be inside. They were friends of Anne's from college. They didn't live in Merton, but at least an hour away. Word had been sent of his being in town, and the two had managed to cut their day short to meet them for dinner.

Aunt Catherine was forever attempting to get him to settle down and move back to the 'family's town' as if it ever _was_. It had been thirty years since the Fitzwilliam family had all lived there together. And it had been over sixty years since the family had any real influence in Merton—as much as Catherine fooled herself into thinking that she was a mover and shaker.

Jade and Jewel flanked William at the table. They were opposites: Jade was dark, and Jewel was blond. But they knew exactly _why_ they had been invited and talked nonstop, asking him incessant questions about his work. He recalled brunch the day before, and another young woman who had asked questions, but he considered the difference. He though their questions annoying, but decided it was because he was interested in Lizabeth. These two had also asked him those same questions before but hadn't paid attention. The fact that they got to talk was paramount., and he only gave short clipped answers. Catherine eventually took over answering for him, which suited him just fine.

His eyes wandered beyond their table. Monday night was an unusual night to dine out, and his eyes alighted at a table for two. Not a man and a woman, but two women. One of them he'd just been thinking about; Lizabeth Bennet sat talking to a friend. He watched the pair. She was animated as she spoke, laughing suddenly which made her companion laugh in response. He missed the whole conversation around him.

"William, where is your head?" said his aunt, calling him back.

"Just…details," he replied. "I should have gone back today."

"I'm sure Caroline can handle things," Anne remarked.

"You said you came to help with the paperwork," said his aunt.

"Yes," William nodded, still distracted. "I got all of the title searches done. There are no liens."

"Of course, there'd be no liens!" Catherine exclaimed, incensed. There _had_ been on some of the other properties in years past.

"I'll drive home tomorrow. I had some ideas for edits to the script after coming here," he commented, more to himself.

"Oh, really?" said Jade. "Do tell."

"How does one become an actress in one of your productions," asked Jewel.

"Experience," he answered. William endured quips from both of the Webb sisters about putting them in one of his productions even though they were, to his mind, like his cousin, Anne: people who didn't have any real occupation. But it was a call that Catherine Deburg seconded as though he should just put _anybody_ he knew in any capacity in his productions.

When the waiter came to whisk away their entrees and asked for dessert choices, he excused himself to go over to Lizabeth's table.

* * *

Lizabeth and Charlene were talking when a figure, somewhat taller than their waiter, suddenly stood next to their table. "Good evening."

She looked up to see William Darcy with a smile on his face. He had an assortment of smiles that she had seen in the last number of days, and they displayed an assortment of his feelings. But he seemed amused this evening and not angry as he had been that morning. (Angry to the point of being bitter when he had shown up and been made to wait for the computer to warm up.)

"Hello," Lizabeth said, not entirely understanding where she stood with this man. She thought they had been on friendly terms on Sunday, but that had all been flipped on its head with his behavior that morning when she had wanted to write him off. Any man who is willing to allow his emotions to be expressed in the moment like that and not have them under control wasn't someone worth her time.

"I'm having dinner here tonight too and thought I'd come by to say hi. I noticed you across the room," he explained.

"Oh. Well…" Lizabeth wasn't sure what else there was to say. "This is my friend, Charlene, did you meet each other on Saturday at the Metcalfe's party?"

"No, I don't think I did," he said in a very business-like way. "Name's William Darcy." He held out his hand. Charlene had been reaching for her wine, but instead reached across to shake his hand.

"I thought you needed to go back to LA this morning," she remarked with a little sass in her voice.

"I ended up having to stay," he said. "My aunt's property issues. I rearranged my schedule and decided to work from here. Caro can hold down the fort for another day…or two."

"So you'll go back tomorrow?" she prompted.

"I may end up staying a few more days," he evaded.

"Is it serious family issues? I hope not," she said, trying not to sound too inquisitive and wondering why he was talking to her. It was then that she looked over and saw that there was a table of women staring at them. "I think your family or friends are missing you."

"They'll do just fine without me," he quipped as though he was inviting himself to stay though she was willing him to go.

"So, you're one of the actors?" Charlene asked.

Lizabeth groaned a little. "He's a _producer_, not an _actor_," she snapped, hoping to cut short their conversation. "And don't ask what a producer does," she added quickly. "I'll explain later if you need to know."

William chuckled. "So we've indoctrinated you, Caroline and I?"

"I paid attention on Sunday. Yes," she asserted. She couldn't account for his standing over their table or talking to them. He didn't seem to have anything else to say, and Charlene didn't press any more questions on him about his work.

William stood in silence for a few heartbeats as they looked at him before he blurted out, "well, enjoy your evening."

"Thank you," they both replied, and he walked back to that table of women who eagerly welcomed him.

"What was that about?" asked Charlene. "Who is he, and does he have the hots for you or what?"

"What!" exclaimed Lizabeth. "No! I don't know."

"He's very good looking. And a producer, like _Hollywood_ and _movies_, producer?"

"Not that level. He does online stuff for one of those subscription channels," she explained.

"But a _producer_? That's rather swanky, but he was definitely eying you. And you just met him? He was all over you," Charlene asserted.

"No, he wasn't!" Lizabeth shook her head. "Mostly, he's annoyed with me." She related how they had met when he first came into the registry office before she discovered him spider-watching at the country club. Though she and William had talked a little at the Metcalfe's party and at Sunday brunch, all of that had fallen apart again with his outburst to her that morning.

"He's an entitled SOB," Charlene remarked.

"Funny," said Lizabeth, interrupting her friend. "Ryan asserted Edgar was an SOB. Is that the only type of man I seem to be involved with?"

"Who's Ryan?" asked her friend.

"Turns out he's William's cousin. He was the captain of Team Pink. In the wheelchair."

"Oh yeah!" said Charlene, "_interesting_ guy."

"We talked for a long time at the party. We were both early; Mimi sort of paired us up."

"But _William_?" Charlene was tenacious. "I still assert he likes you, even if he is giving mixed signals."

"I'm not _sure_ I like _him_," Lizabeth replied. "Besides, I just broke up with Edgar. Why should I want to be involved with someone new?"

"Maybe finding somebody _better_ than Edgar would help you get over him more quickly," Charlene suggested.

"Are you telling me that Edgar isn't worth getting over?" She frowned as she wasn't sure she wanted to hear disparaging remarks about her boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend.

"Perhaps," said Charlene.

"Do you know something that you're not telling me?" she asked.

"You know I've never liked Ed Stone. I never thought he was a good fit for you." Lizabeth encouraged her friend to continue with a hand flip, though inside, she wanted to yell at her to stop talking. "I could never account for why he wanted you. Except, maybe, you were some trophy to obtain and put in a case," Charlene explained.

She had shared about Ed asking her to marry him, but she hadn't shared about Saturday night or the sense Lizabeth got that a trophy wife was _exactly_ what Edgar wanted, the more she thought about it. Was she too proud to admit such a thing to her friend? Her insides all felt queasy, and it wasn't because of dinner.

"You know, I think you're exactly right. _That's_ what Ed wants. I never said I was in love with him. I thought we were just dating, and we had very different ideas about what we wanted in a relationship." It's one thing to know something in your head and another to admit the idea to somebody else.

"Maybe you should ascertain whether or not William Darcy, underneath all the bluster, really likes you," suggested her friend.

"I refuse to think that I should put up with a man who insults me because he likes me," Lizabeth asserted, shutting down her friend, and her argument that she consider such a prospect.

"On another note," Charlene said, as she finished her wine (noticing that the waiter was bringing the bill), "I think you should ask Mary about Ed."

* * *

When she was home, Lizabeth thought about what she had discussed with Charlene. She didn't want a man who insulted her because he liked her. That seemed playground-level stuff. She was ignorant about a lot of relationship nuances, but she thought she knew how you treat people. She always tried to be fair-minded and give people second chances, though continued bad behavior knocked them off her list. At least, that was her _theory_ in life on how to treat others.

Her text notification sounded, and she picked it up, thinking it was Charlene with some quip about their evening. But it was Edgar. She'd forgotten about him and the proposal. The kitten had banished thoughts of Ed from her mind.

_What the hell did you think you were doing by tearing a hole in wall to rescue a cat? You'll probably get fired for it_

_You need someone to take care of you_

_Obviously you need ME to look after you if you'd make such rash decisions, not let animal control handle it_

_Why the hell haven't you responded to my text from last night?_

"I don't want to respond," Lizabeth told Ed's text out loud, though she didn't dare send a note back. Tears fell from her eyes, and she left her phone on the couch and went to bed. Her romance novel wasn't even touched as the events of the day pulled her to sleep.

* * *

She made it into the office with five minutes to spare the next morning. Her nemesis, William Darcy, didn't make an appearance. Not that she expected him back—he hadn't indicated that he needed to come back again; he had his files. As far as she knew, he was on his way to Los Angeles, and she didn't know when she would see him again. Maybe in six months, they would be filming his show in town, and she'd see him then.

But there were a plethora of phone calls as the article about the kitten, "Ameowsing Late Night Deposit," had appeared in the Merton Daily (even though it was an online paper). There was an enormous amount of interest in the kitten. Lizabeth accounted for it because people on the internet loved cats—she shouldn't have been surprised. The majority of the calls were people wanting to know if they could adopt it. But 'Kitty' (Lizabeth had no clever name) wasn't up for adoption.

She was disappointed that it wasn't a boy as she wanted to call him 'Rex' (short for Record). The kitten had spent the night with Dr. Robinson, the vet, being 'observed.' Lizabeth was going to keep it and assured every well-wisher that the kitten, while a little malnourished, was being cared for. Dr. Robinson said that Kitty could come home that evening. People even walked in from the street to see her, and Lizabeth had to patiently explain that the cat wasn't there.

But _some_ people had legitimate business in the recording office. She watched a young man come through the front doors who was so out of place that she couldn't help but track his movements around the small space. He looked at the hanging signs and took in the various objects in the office before he caught her looking at him. He grinned as though Lizabeth admired him—as a woman admires a man in a sexual way. She shuddered. There wasn't anything physically appealing about him. He had terrible posture and the appearance of someone who had not exercised since being forced to in high school.

"I need to fill out a fictitious business statement," he called out, walking to the other side of the counter.

"Over here," she said, pointing down one station. He dutifully shuffled along the counter to the spot on the end. Lizabeth explained how the process worked. For the recording office, he merely had to give his full name, address, and contact information, and state what name he wished to use.

"Oh, that's easy!" he said, interrupting her.

"You also need to sign a statement saying you've done a state-wide search to verify that your name doesn't conflict with another in use within the state of California," she continued.

"Really? I thought I could use any name I wanted!" he said with swaggering confidence. She had seen that sort of confidence in other young men before.

"Have you?" Lizabeth pressed.

"Yeah, sure!" he answered. It was evident to both of them that he was lying. She began to explain the fees next. "Fees!" he cried in disgust.

"Yes, you must pay for any recording here. To make it official, you then have to publish your business name in the newspaper four times in succession over the next month." She was employing her best customer service voice, but felt exasperated by his interruptions; he wasn't someone who listened well.

"What! This is way too complicated."

"You could just do business in your own legal name," she pointed out.

"Why would I want to do that? That's no fun," he said mysteriously. He leaned over, invading her space. Lizabeth was happy about the separation that the counter provided.

"It depends on your motivation for having a fictitious name, none of which I can advise you on." She held up a hand as she anticipated his next question. "I can give you no legal advice. Once you have your name published, the newspaper will let me know. But you also need a business license from the city to conduct business."

"More fees, right?" he moaned as he leaned away. At least he had stopped breathing on her. She had finally taken him down a notch. There was something bothersome about this man. He was like those stereotypical gamers who never moved out of the house once they graduated from high school. They got all their news from forums that only fed their self-image, and didn't give them any real sense of the world. Her idea about him was reinforced with the name that he registered: Not Your Mother's Mining Company Ventures.

She had no idea what sort of business he was conducting. Lizabeth could only guess he was a gamer, but were there professional gamers? She dutifully took his money, gave him instructions about placing an ad with the Merton Daily, and gave him one last lecture about needing a business license. He left.

Only half of the people who conducted businesses using fictitious names ever applied for business licenses. Those who did business out of their homes didn't seem to think it a necessity. While the city required the license, there was no official way of checking between the two entities because _they_ were city, and the recording office was _county_. Sometimes, when she ran into a city official, they joked they ought to do something about it.

After he walked out of the building, however, Lizabeth thought about another man who hadn't been quite as pushy but had a similar profile. She looked through the previous weeks' filings and found the application. It was a different personal name, but the business name was similar. Getting it Off While I Mine Ventures. There was that similarity with 'Mine' or 'Mining' and 'Ventures' in their names. She wondered if there was a connection.

Lizabeth was intrigued and did a database search on other fictitious business names, which included the name 'Mine' or 'Mining' and the word 'Ventures' and discovered that there had been three others in the past three months. She didn't remember any of the people; they hadn't been as annoying as the guy from that afternoon. But her curiosity was piqued about what was going on in Merton. The only thing she could think of was that popular mining game, and did they all play professional video games? Was the use of a fictitious business name related to playing games, at home, for a profit? And why didn't they want to use their real name? She couldn't think what they were doing.

She was going in to talk to Judge Metcalfe about it, with paperwork in-hand, when someone came in. The face was familiar because she had seen the woman's sister a couple of weeks before. The Jenkinson Quads were an institution in Merton. Lizabeth had heard about them even before she had moved to the city (when she used to come merely to visit her aunt and uncle) because they were just about the same age. People talked about them for various reasons. Some considered it a case of IVF having gotten out of hand: Mrs. Jenkinson had two eggs implanted, but both eggs had split, and she ended up with four babies. They were Karen and Karsen, and Kate Lyn and Kaley.

Lizabeth had issued a marriage license to Karen Jenkinson two weeks before, though privacy laws (and her own personal code of ethics) meant she didn't discuss such things. She wondered which sister this was and if they would all appear in short order. She had no idea if Karen had gotten married yet, or what sort of wedding they had planned. The fact that _this_ Jenkinson sister brought a young man with her hinted that _she_ was there for a marriage license as well.

This daughter was Kate Lyn. She and her fiancé, Daniel Wilcox, worked through the marriage license application together but also asked about a civil ceremony which her sister hadn't done.

"The judge only performs them in the afternoons on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays," Lizabeth explained.

"Today's a Tuesday!" said Kate Lyn brightly.

"Yes, but it's almost closing time. The Judge usually does them right after lunch."

"How about tomorrow?" Daniel asked. Lizabeth was curious why they were in a hurry, but also knew it wasn't her business to ask. She wondered if there was a competition of some sort, a _coup_ to be married before Karen.

"I'll need to check the Judge's schedule," she announced. They needed to finish the application before bothering the Judge.

"I don't need a blood test, do I?" Daniel asked.

"No," Lizabeth answered. She confirmed that they hadn't been married before, and they filled out their full names and addresses. She knew Kate Lyn was over eighteen since _Karen_ had been in two weeks earlier, and Lizabeth also confirmed that neither had been married. Then she knocked on the Judge's door; he kept his own calendar.

"I have a civil ceremony request," Lizabeth explained after he had asked her to step inside.

"Thursday. I can do Thursday," Judge Metcalfe confirmed after checking his calendar.

"I'm sure they'd be happy with that," she remarked. "They asked about _today_!" She might have made a face.

"It's quitting time!" he laughed.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Thursday at 1:30," she told Kate Lyn and Daniel when she was back at the counter.

"Great," said Daniel.

"Hmm," was Kate Lyn's response. She glared at Lizabeth and then turned those unhappy eyes on her fiancé; she _was_ in a rush to get married.

"You can bring witnesses, or I can stand in for you," Lizabeth explained.

"Alright," murmured the young woman noncommittally before turning to leave.

Lizabeth meant to go back and talk to the Judge about the 'mining venturists,' but it was getting late, and she was due to pick up the kitten from Dr. Robinson. She decided to leave that conversation for another day. The Judge would be getting ready to go home. He had been leaving early these days, an anxious father-to-be.

She closed up right at five and practically ran out the door. Dr. Robinson's practice stayed open until 5:30, and she was eager to see the kitten. Lizabeth had shopped at a pet store during her lunch break for everything she _thought_ was needed for pet ownership, but was indescribably excited when she walked into the vet's office.

"Miss Bennet!" cried the receptionist. "You will have your hands full, but I believe she's ready to go. Have you decided on a name?"

"No," Lizabeth answered, feeling a little less elated. "But I can't wait to see her again."

"She's the most talkative thing," warned the receptionist. There was paperwork to fill out, and bills to pay (larger than she had anticipated), but she and the kitten were celebrities; she hoped she had received a bit of a discount.

Dr. Robinson opened the door and invited her back. He had a lot to share about her new friend, and the vet reiterated what the receptionist said. "She's very talkative."

"You mean she's still in pain or distress?" Lizabeth asked, worried then as she had never been a pet owner before. Dawn wouldn't allow pets.

"No, but I've found that, for some reason, orange tabbies are talkative," explained the vet.

"_Talkative_! How can a cat be _talkative_?" she asked.

"You'll see," he said but offered no other explanation.

A veterinary assistant brought the kitten in, wrapped up in old toweling. Once put down on the table, Lizabeth went to pet her. The cat cried loudly. When she stopped, the cat meowed again in protest as if it wasn't sure if it wanted to be petted, but hadn't wanted Lizabeth to stop either.

"See, they just have a lot to say," Dr. Robinson stated matter-of-factly.

"Oh. But she is better?" She needed reassurance.

"Yes. I gave her sub-cue fluids. I suggest you give her a kitten diet, but you're free to take her home now."

The cat was placed in a box which made her howl as much as when she'd been locked in the night deposit. It was a miserably long drive to her apartment when there was a howling cat next to her on the seat. Lizabeth hovered once home. At first, 'Kitty' wouldn't come out of the carrier despite having protested the entire trip. Neither food nor strokes or a wriggling string induced it to poke a whisker out.

Lizabeth gave up and went to change clothes only to come back to an empty box and no kitten. There weren't many places an orange ball of fluff could hide, but it took her over twenty minutes to discover her snoozing under the bed in her spare room.

Kitty slept until she was ready to make dinner, then the kitten demanded instant attention. First, to be fed, then to play. Her usual plans for cooking went out the window. An hour later, Lizabeth felt lucky to have found time to reheat a can of soup.

* * *

A/N: my beta suggested I mention the background for this version of Elizabeth. 'Lizabeth' is loosely based on two friends who grew up in restrictive households. Both had over-bearing parents, were told what to do, and after college graduation, their parents bought them or long-term rented apartments as a means of keeping control over them (don't knock with CA housing prices).

'T' had the controlling mother who I've often channeled for my Mrs. Bennet portrayals over the years. T had to come over for Sunday dinners every week until she was at least 40. 'E' had an abusive father who thought nothing of picking her up and tossing her across the room if she was disobedient. Neither has been good with relationships, neither married. I had mentally dedicated this story to them as _in print_ we can have HEA, right? But the sort of control and mind-fuckery it imposed on them was crippling. It really isn't easy to shake off or walk away from your cage and your jailers.

T has done okay, deciding that being an old cat lady with her bees outside pollinating her garden, and weekly visits with girlfriends to favorite wine bar makes for a great life. E has struggled more. She's a scientist and even Austen's Caroline would say she was 'accomplished,' yet doesn't think she is as has never found her self-worth.

We may be born with an inherent nature, but nurture matters too. Don't knock someone who is struggling to find the key to unlock a cage.


	8. Chapter 8

William didn't return to LA on Tuesday morning. His friend had driven himself back Monday morning rather than Sunday as planned, and William wondered if Charles and Jane Sweet had hooked up that quickly—that would have been fast, even for his actor friend. Caroline had taken Amanda back as Mandy had work.

But William decided to brave staying at his aunt's house. It was large enough that he didn't worry about imposing, though he was subject to any rules which Aunt Catherine saw fit to impose (and which were never the same, visit to visit). He holed up in Uncle Lewis' study, working on notes to send to the writer about changes to the script for _Bella Montaña _after having looked at potential locations.

But he was distracted with a reflection on his family's history. He thought about his Grandfather splitting up the property, and of his Uncle Clifford and his mother's willingness to sell out—and then frittering the money away. Once Grandpa Harold was gone, there had been nothing but a slow bleed of the remaining land, what was left of the Pemberley property.

Grandpa had wanted to preserve some land and the original home, but the heirs had bickered over Grandpa's last little bit of property. While they had been able to sell off the majority of the land, there was still a small piece left. However, thirty acres was nothing when the nineteenth-century property had measured tens of thousands. But the original Fitzwilliam home was still there, run-down and without tenants. It needed a lot of money for conservation and preservation.

Neither Anne nor Ryan seemed as attached to Pemberley House as he, though they shared ownership. It sat neglected and was just barely maintained. None of them wanted to lease it, though it was unlikely that it would receive a going-rate rent as it lacked modern conveniences and was too far from LA. But if William made it truly big in Hollywood, he wanted to restore Pemberley.

Catherine was subjecting Anne to a slow bleed of what was Deburg property. William worried about his cousin's long-term-prospects. (He also felt protective towards Ryan, though Ryan, perhaps, didn't need it as much). But maybe _protection_ was just another word for _love_. Could the cousins rally together when the children of the previous generation could only squabble?

"We've bounced a lot of names around," Anne began. The two of them sat in Lewis' study. She had dropped by to see what William was doing and stayed when he had asked about the land sale and the commercial developer's plans. "It's that plot west of Field Avenue, so I thought we should call the whole development 'Netherfield.'"

"Netherfield?" he repeated, "alright, I guess. But the 'nether' part makes me think of the afterlife somehow."

"You overthink. I imagine expansive fields covered with golden daffodils or spotted with sheep just over the next horizon," Anne explained.

"So, the commercial park is going to be called Netherfield or the whole piece of land?"

"_All_ of it," she answered. "Netherfield Estates will be the housing area, and Netherfield Tech Park is what we'll call the commercial area."

"Isn't Catherine going to freak that there's no 'Deburg' name in either of them? That's been her bread and butter whenever land's been sold before," he remarked, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, and attempting to ascertain her feelings about this project.

"Yeah—it's why Merton has two golf courses, including the Lewis Deburg Golf Course!" Anne laughed. She seemed more amused than anything.

"Look, Anne. Are you and Aunt Catherine so hurting for money that you need this sale? It's just that I hate for us to lose any more land, Fitzwilliam land."

She didn't answer but began tidying papers. "It seems to me, William, that it isn't _Fitzwilliam_ land anymore. It's _Deburg_ land, and I can do what I want with it so long as Mom agrees."

He set up straighter at the rebuke. It _was_ true. The land was under _her_ control; it wasn't his or even jointly his. It belonged to nostalgia to ever believe he influenced what could be done with it. The Pemberley estate was fifty or sixty years gone, despite the small plot that held Pemberley House. William's best bet to recreate it would be to write about his family's struggles. It gave him new ideas about the direction for _Bella Montaña_.

After working for hours on the next series for CinemaReady, he pulled out the documents about this land sale. William didn't like it. He didn't like that he came from a family which couldn't manage money. It made him wonder if he was the same? He had a person with a head for business who managed the finances for his company. But if he was left on his own, would he do any better than his mother, aunt, or uncle in managing money? He wasn't sure. He was certainly _motivated_ to do better.

Ryan lamented that he was poor and blamed his father. Anne appeared motivated to at least _attempt_ to put money back into the local economy even if she was myopic about putting some money away for herself. He wondered how his cousins felt about their grandfather, or even about their parents, as it had been a joint effort to ruin the family's fortunes by selling the land. Perhaps they weren't bothered as much as William was about the Pemberley property being split up.

* * *

Lizabeth was five minutes late opening the office on Wednesday morning.

"You look tired," Doug remarked.

"That damned kitten is a bundle of energy," she sighed. "I don't think I slept more than an hour and a half at a time."

"Sounds like having a baby," he replied. She knew Doug had two daughters.

"Do they _ever_ settle down and sleep through the night?" she asked, yawning.

"No. I don't think I've gotten a good night's sleep since becoming a father," he quipped as he sat down at the computer terminal.

Lizabeth groaned. Perhaps it had been an impulsive decision to keep the kitten. "Aren't cats supposed to _sleep_ sixteen hours a day? Why was she up all night—or what felt like all night?" she quipped.

It was a busy morning, but a repeat of the day before, with people wanting to see the kitten that had been rescued from the wall. She wondered if she could bring the cat to work with her, and considered asking the Judge. But Troy Metcalfe was quite distracted, because of his wife. Lizabeth was so new at this job that she wasn't quite sure whether such a request would put her on his bad side and give her a sort of black mark on her working record.

At lunch, she stretched her legs and walked around the downtown area after grabbing a quick bite. She was making a loop of the city block when a woman in a convertible drove by; the top was down. It was cold enough that Lizabeth stopped to watch and wondered that the woman wasn't freezing. She looked stylish, movie-star stylish, with a chiffon scarf tied around her head and sunglasses on her nose as the breeze whipped at the ends of the scarf. The woman looked young, and Lizabeth noted two men across the street staring just as transfixed as she.

A group of suits passed Lizabeth as she rounded the last block to turn back towards the recording office, and she caught words about _technology park_ and _infrastructure_ and _ROI_. None of it made much sense to her since she had never worked in business before, though Ed was a businessman. He had never actually explained what he did day to day. Mostly he had assured Lizabeth that he was rich. At least the city was a bustling place, right?

The afternoon was oddly busy, which suited her. She had to shoo a couple away who came in too late to get through the marriage license process and locked up. But for once, she looked forward to going home since she had her orange bundle of energy waiting for her. The two of them played, though Kitty was still young enough that she would stop suddenly and decide a nap was imperative. Lizabeth didn't mind as she used the opportunity to put items in the dishwasher and thought about going to bed early.

She heard the sound of her text notification and hunted for her phone. It was from Edgar.

_Have you thought more about my offer?_

That was it. He still hadn't bothered to call her as a follow-up but was only _texting_ her about his marriage proposal. She ignored the message, turned her phone on silent, and headed to her bedroom to find a romance novel.

* * *

Only once during their Thursday lunch did Charlene bring up Liza talking to Mary. Charlene had other things to discuss; she had met someone.

"It was at the Walmart on Tuesday night," her friend explained. "We were just sort of there, without purpose, and began talking in the frozen food aisle."

"Frozen foods? You met someone in the frozen food aisle?" Lizabeth hoped that she didn't sound as unkind as the words did when they stumbled out. But as flushed as Charlene's cheeks were, the meeting didn't sound romantic. Not according to any romance novel she had ever read. _No one_ met in the frozen food section.

"We're both single and cook for one." Charlene defended. "He was talkative. He's an adjunct professor at the junior college, so he has to be smart, _right_?"

"Yes, I guess so," Lizabeth agreed. "So, you're going to see him again?"

Her friend's cheeks blushed again. "Yeah. We plan to meet on Friday at that little diner on the north-west side of town. Split the bill, but have dinner and talk." Lizabeth thought about all the Friday dinners she had shared with Edgar. Not once had she ever paid or shared the cost. Was she spoiled? What _were_ her ideas of romance or relationships?

"I think that's great," she said enthusiastically. "You should call me and tell me how it went, either way, on Saturday."

"If it goes badly, I'm not sure I'll want to fess up," Charlene admitted. "Maybe we can plan to have lunch or dinner on Monday, and I'll be willing to talk by then, either way." They made plans for another Monday dinner before Lizabeth remembered that there was a civil ceremony, and she had to rush back to make sure the office and the Judge were ready.

Kate Lyn Jenkinson showed up with Daniel Wilcox five minutes after she reopened the office. The couple brought friends as witnesses, so once she determined that the Judge was ready, Lizabeth sent the four of them into his chambers.

That made her recall that she had meant to talk to the Judge about the odd number of fictitious business statements with 'mining' in the title. But as the couple was leaving, Troy Metcalfe told her _he_ had to leave because of some family business at home. Lizabeth carried on with the rest of Thursday on her own.

* * *

She decided to follow Charlene's advice and seek out Mary that evening. Her cat responsibilities meant she had to go home first to ensure that 'Kitty' (the still-unnamed kitten) hadn't ruined her house and was fed before going to the hotel bar.

Lizabeth changed her clothes, because it was evening, _and_ because it made her feel better. She also needed to change because, after playing with the kitten, her work clothes were covered with orange fur. She reasoned that she might as well throw on something nice, even if there was no Edgar waiting to meet her.

Whenever she had frequented the hotel bar before, it had been right after work, and there hadn't been many people then. It was far more crowded now, even those people who worked 'late' were showing up for drinks as they loosened ties or kicked off heels. Mary Abel was at her piano, playing in her absent-minded way. She seemed to have a hand on the pulse of the mood around her.

Lizabeth first went up to the bar to get a drink, intending to get a glass of wine, her staple. Joe, the bartender, informed her that they had a specialty cocktail that evening, the SloJo. She hadn't heard of it, but he winked at her, and she agreed to try it, before going to sit with her friend.

Mary finished her song, stopping to look at her audience before asking Lizabeth. "How's your week been?"

"Exciting," Lizabeth giggled. She was already four or five sips into her drink, and it was very sweet. It probably masked a high alcohol content.

"I read about the kitten," Mary remarked.

"Yeah, everybody wants to hear about her. People are still coming by wanting to see her as if I'm going to bring her to work!"

"How are you doing with the 'being single' thing?" Mary asked. She started playing again, one of those little tunes without end.

Lizabeth spared a thought for the fact that Mary could play without looking down at her hands, something she was never able to do. "Ed's texted me, but not called," she answered. "But it's over. We both want vastly different things from the relationship. He wanted marriage, and I just wanted someone to date. I don't see that we can go on."

"That doesn't sound definitive—like you've called it off _for sure_," Mary observed.

_Had she_? Lizabeth wondered. Had she not been firm with Ed? She'd been more annoyed that he kept texting her at the end of every day. Texts which she _hadn't_ responded to. But had she stated in _specific_ terms that she considered it over between them and that she didn't want him back? Why were women responsible for such things, _but men never_? Perhaps she _should_ have responded.

"Maybe I _have_ been wishy-washy," she agreed.

"I think he encourages that," Mary asserted. "So don't blame yourself for thinking that you haven't cut the cord properly. He's annoying that way."

"Gee, thanks, saying that my ex is annoying!" Lizabeth cried, suddenly frustrated with her friend.

"What planet are you from? Girlfriends are allowed to bash ex-boyfriends together."

"Are they?" she asked, turning a little pale with honest surprise. "Did I miss that day in school?"

"I think you missed a couple of days in school," said Mary.

"Huh," Lizabeth sighed. "I believe I missed a lot of lessons from the school of life and still have many to learn."

"We all get there," her friend responded, as she continued to play her mindless and unending tune. Apparently, Mary thought that they weren't yet done speaking. "So, _you_ think it's over, and yet you say _Edgar_ texts you every night?" Lizabeth nodded. "So _you_ believe _he_ thinks it isn't over?" Mary reasoned.

"Yes," Lizabeth agreed.

"What if I told you he was here with another woman last night, in the bar. _Late_ last night?"

Lizabeth felt as if she suddenly had tunnel vision as her gut cramped up. It was like the symptoms of a migraine (or so someone had once described). "Edgar was here with someone else?" her voice was soft and barely audible. Mary nodded. "Maybe it was someone from work? When we were at the country club, there was a businesswoman from that software company. Maybe he was just meeting a business contact?" she suggested.

"No." It was a very definite _no_ from Mary.

"You're telling me _he_ thinks it's over too," she reasoned. Her stomach rumbled then; she hadn't eaten. She went to take a big swig of her drink and realized that the glass was empty.

"That's _not_ what I am saying," Mary continued. "I'm saying he was here with a blond, and they had their hands all over each other; their lips too. And yet you're telling me that he's texting you about an answer to his marriage proposal."

"I need another drink," she cried.

"That might be a good idea," said Mary, who motioned to Joe to bring one over.

"_Why_ would he do that?"

"Because he's not worth your time. He's not worth it, Lizabeth," Mary asserted.

Her stomach cramped up again. "Huh," she sighed.

"I'm not one to normally express an opinion, but just dump him _for sure_," said Mary.

"But maybe he's sad." Lizabeth felt confused about the whole thing with Edgar. There had been a sort of power and high with dumping him and keeping him at bay about the marriage proposal. But had she been wishing to go back to dating him? She had so little experience and didn't quite know what to do. "Maybe he was just feeling hurt?" she suggested.

Mary played a chord, not a pleasant one, then took her hands off the keyboard to stare straight into Lizabeth's eyes. "Honey, listen to me. This is probably the _thirty-seventh_ time I've seen Edgar Stone in here with other women since I've met you."

Lizabeth's eyes went wide just as Joe set the drink down in front of her. She grabbed a hold of it and downed half of it before she looked back at her friend. "He's been seeing other women?"

"He's been _sleeping_ with other women the whole time you've dated," Mary answered.

She stared open-mouthed at her friend, numb and bewildered then started crying. "Why didn't anybody _say_ anything?" She couldn't process such things as a betrayal.

"It's a difficult thing to navigate as a friend," Mary explained. Those hands began to play another tune, "to point out what a crappy boyfriend your friend is seeing. Often, with friendships, it works just to be supportive and be there for someone rather than always giving them advice or telling them what to do."

Lizabeth grabbed her drink and downed the other half. She was numb and wanted to hold off the emotions that pushed for admittance, but she considered Mary's words. She understood the concept expressed at some level, even if she was still processing it on another—Ed had been dating other women while he had been seeing her.

All her life, she had continuously been told what to do. It was unique to have someone who valued her and let her decide for herself what to do. Even if she was floundering, and couldn't quite tell Ed 'no' _for sure_, her friends had been supportive. Neither Mary nor Jane nor Charlene had told her to dump him. They had left that decision to Lizabeth.

"He really is a bastard," Mary emphasized. "But maybe you like bastards?"

"I think I need another drink."

Mary nodded her head and another SloJo appeared in front of them. Lizabeth was surprised that she wasn't more emotional or thrown by the revelation. There was probably time for _that_ later.

"How is it…that my first real, long-term relationship…has gone so terribly wrong?" she asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Mary kept playing.

Neither spoke for a while, and the music was sufficient to fill the silence. Lizabeth looked out at the room to spy on the other people who had come to drink and socialize. It was a different crowd than the posh places she was used to.

"We all need to start somewhere. I'm just sorry that your somewhere was so crappy," offered Mary. "But it doesn't mean that the next guy you date will be so awful." She gave a little half-smile.

"I can't consider dating anyone _ever again_," Lizabeth declared, feeling overwhelmed suddenly. She put a hand up to her head and thought about the three drinks she had just downed. "I believe I need something to eat."

A bowl of finger food appeared, followed by a menu. "On the house," Mary declared. "Order an appetizer; they come quicker."

"Okay," Lizabeth agreed. She selected a plate of assorted appetizers before she looked again at her drink. "The whole time?" she asked, sneaking a glance at her friend. "The _whole_ time Edgar and I were dating; he had women in here?"

"Yes," Mary answered. Every time that she responded to a question from Lizabeth, she changed the tune to match Lizabeth's mood.

"You know we only saw each other on Friday nights," she murmured.

"I know," said Mary.

"So how often was he here?" she asked.

"Two or three times a week," the lounge lizard queen answered, playing the sound-track to Lizabeth's misery.

"Did he have women with him all the time?" She dared to ask.

"Not every night, but at least once a week," said Mary.

She took a swig of her drink, put it down, and reached up to run her fingers through her hair. A lock got caught on the back of the seat, and she tugged it free before letting her fingers flow through to the tips. "How did I not know?"

"He played on your inexperience. He's also manipulative." Mary played another chord and stopped to pour herself a glass of water.

Her food arrived, and Lizabeth picked at it, not tasting anything. "I've taken up so much of your time," she said mournfully. She was surprised that she wasn't as grieved or upset by this news as she supposed she should be. It would probably hit her more tomorrow. She needed to tell Edgar Stone, III to go jump in a lake and to return the ring. She needed to be _definitive_ and _assertive_.

"You need to take a taxi home," Mary cautioned.

"I'm fine!" Lizabeth protested.

"I don't think you drink much, and you've had too many SloJos," Mary pointed out.

"Maybe I'll stay and sober up." Lizabeth looked down and noticed that her drink was empty. She grabbed her plate. "I'll sit in one of the comfy chairs and brood. I appreciate you being honest—and being a friend."

"You're welcome," Mary replied. She drank a few more sips of water then began to play again.

Lizabeth found that she was unsteady on her feet as she made her way with her appetizer plate to a two-seater. She wondered why she had insisted on wearing heels; she wasn't used to wearing them. Looking over at the bar, somehow Joe knew what she needed and sent over a glass of water with the waitress.

She brooded as she sat with her nibbles, her glass of water, and Mary's admonishment to sober up. How had Lizabeth gotten to this point in life? She had dated a man that cheated on her yet proposed marriage? She was perceived as the type of woman that he desired as a wife? Was she malleable? _Biddable_—was that how men viewed her? Was this all her parents' fault for keeping her under their thumb, insisting that she live at home for college and graduate school?

Or did Lizabeth need to look at herself and realize that she should have put her foot down? _She_ should have decided that she had a responsibility to leave home. In a way, she had enjoyed being a sheltered hot-house flower—being a privileged princess. She hadn't wanted for anything, having her parents pay for college while she watched friends work two jobs and still go to school full time.

Lizabeth admitted that she hadn't wanted to push herself. She couldn't decide on a focus in grad school and had been happy to accept this tailor-made job when half her school friends were still looking for work. Up until now, she had merely been a participant in her life and not a decision-maker. She hadn't taken charge but now was determined to change. In her alcohol-muzzy brain, she vowed that when she was sober, she would take steps, make better choices, and take charge.

That's when it hit her: _Edgar had been sleeping with other women the whole fucking time they had been dating_. He had probably left her last Saturday night and gone out to find someone to have sex with. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she signaled for the waitress to bring her another drink.

"I think you've had enough," said the woman.

"I'm taking a taxi!" she cried defiantly.

"Alright then," the waitress answered, a little reluctantly and brought back another SloJo.

She got a hand mirror out of her purse, a tissue, and dabbed at her mascara. When she looked up, she saw William Darcy across the room, looking at her. _He would probably be just as unpleasant a man to date as Edgar_, she thought. Thoughts of Ed made the tears fall again, and she reached with her fingertips to wipe at the tears in her eyes as she stared at him.

* * *

A/N: my college kids are home safe. I home everyone is doing well sheltering at home.


	9. Chapter 9

William went to the hotel bar primarily out of a sense of frustration. He needed to get away from his aunt (and even his cousin whom he usually didn't find frustrating). Earlier that afternoon, he had sat down with them and brought up the idea of renegotiating the land deal, but they were rigid in their outlook.

Their attitude was that what's done was done, and they didn't want to change anything. He thought they were doing themselves a disservice by not attempting to negotiate the best terms possible. Anne planned to pour a significant amount back into the community and not into her pocket (as though she was a philanthropist). There wasn't enough money to do that. He suspected Aunt Catherine's undue influence for _that stance_. His cousin needed money to live on and couldn't afford to waste it on business ventures that were more speculative than straight-forward.

William ate dinner alone as he thought through his problems and then made his way to the bar for a drink to think some more. He also worried that he was spending far too much time on family issues and not enough time on his company's concerns.

But then there was a breeze that seemed to clear his mind and a movement caught his eye — the simple action of a woman playing with her hair. He looked towards the end of the bar and noticed Lizabeth Bennet sitting next to the piano player. Those long, luxurious locks were played with, absent-mindedly, and William watched as she pulled her hair out of her face and flipped it back over her shoulders. It was so heavy that it immediately spilled forward and obscured her profile.

He lost himself, just watching her, though her movements went from distracted to tearful. It seemed that the piano player and Lizabeth were talking about a difficult subject, something which made her gulp at her drink and dab at her eyes. He wondered if it wasn't that damned ex-boyfriend again. On Monday, she hadn't seemed upset, but perhaps life had caught up with her.

Eventually, she moved to a separate table, and William watched her go. She seemed distraught and called for another drink, which she gulped greedily — not the signs of a composed person. Their eyes met; William left his stool, grabbed his drink, and walked over to her table.

"Hi," he said. Fingers jabbed at her tears as she looked up at him.

"Hi," she finally said after quite a long pause, as if she had considered not responding or if she wanted to tell him to get lost.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

Again there was a pause. "No," she answered and took another sip. William wanted to comment on that but held his tongue. He sat in the opposite chair. "I'm done with the platter if you want anything," she offered, pushing a plate forward.

"I already ate, but thank you." He looked at her. "I stayed in town for family reasons."

"I sort of wondered," Lizabeth replied and sipped again. A hand came up to rub at her cheek, but she didn't seem inclined to conversation. He was used to women who always had something to share with him.

"You look unhappy," he tried.

"I suppose the tears give it away?" she said as a palm rubbed her cheek. "I probably look awful."

"You're a beautiful woman, Lizabeth," he said. That seemed to have been the wrong thing to say as she looked even more upset.

"I think I'm done with _all_ men," she said. Her eyes blinked a little as though she was having trouble keeping them open, yet she took another sip of the drink.

"It's that bad, huh? You've got to the 'I hate men' stage?"

"Un-huh," she agreed, nodding. Then her head jerked a little. "Wait! Is that a stage?"

"Yeah. I thought all women got to that stage in a breakup where they declare all men bastards and swear off of them forever. It's part of the checklist," he said.

"I didn't know that!" she moaned. Her eyes grew large. William wondered if she would cry again.

"It is," he assured her, biting down on the sharper retort he had of 'where have you been?' She was different. "You know my job is to be a storyteller…"

"I thought you were a producer," she interrupted.

"Yes, but I produce _stories_, so I'm always on top of current stories or trends or memes," he explained. "And with breakups (and I'm just guessing here that it's a breakup), there's always a tough period, and you'll hate all men, but it _will_ get better."

"That's rich, advice coming from a guy!" Lizabeth snorted.

"Think of it as coming from a storyteller or a friend and not a guy."

"It's not that I regret us splitting up," she moaned. "It's the knowledge of what he did while we were together."

"Care to share?" he asked.

"We only saw each other on Friday nights. _Sometimes_ Saturdays," she paused. Whether to find courage or because of the alcohol, he couldn't tell. "But he always told me he was too busy to see me any other time—that he was _working_ the rest of the week. But I've just found out that he's been here, two or three times a week, with other women."

"Oh," William replied. "That's gotta hurt."

She looked at him. He hoped that she could see in his eyes and hear in his voice that he was sympathetic. She had to know it hurt. Surely she had experienced that before? He'd been through many breakups, and they were never easy, but you _knew_, a part of you clung to sanity and understood that you had the strength to carry on.

"Were you in love with him?" That was a bold question considering that he and Lizabeth barely knew each other. She came out of her reverie and looked at him as she realized the boldness of the question. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "That was impertinent. I just…you seemed fond of him, but I think we were all surprised by his showing up on Sunday."

"I _was_ surprised by his showing up on Sunday." A hand came up to run through her hair, and William was momentarily distracted. He was doing well as a friend and a shoulder to lean on. But when she played with her hair, he was distracted by other thoughts.

"He was my first real boyfriend, you see. I seem to have gotten it all rolled up in one." Lizabeth made the worst face as though tears and a torrent of emotions would break through the dam walls.

William felt as though cold water had been thrown over him, which dampened his interest. "Your _first_ boyfriend?"

"My first, real, long-term relationship, yup," she admitted. She thumped her hands down on the table; her hands gathered the cloth beneath up into her fists. "I was too busy with grad school and college before. I'm not sure that they counted. This is my first real job."

"I see," he said automatically. He felt like his mind still couldn't process her disclosure.

"You know," she said. "I think I am _really_ drunk. I am distraught, and I need to go home." She stood suddenly but swerved on her heels and listed over. He had to stand quickly to catch her from falling.

"Did you drive here?" he asked.

"I did, but I promised Mary and the waitress that I would take a taxi home," she explained.

"I've only had one drink. I can drive you home and drop you off," he offered.

"I thought you were a different person," Lizabeth murmured, "but okay." William thought that was an interesting comment.

"Do you have everything?" he asked. Her coat had been left on the back of a chair, and they went to retrieve it.

"I'm going now," she declared to the piano player. "William will take me home."

"That's good. You have to work tomorrow," said the woman at the keyboard.

"Oh, yeah!" Lizabeth grinned. She was unsteady on her feet as he escorted her to his car. The walkway to the parking lot was covered, but it was open at the sides which allowed the cold in. She shivered in the February air as they made their way to his car. William held the door open for her, and she fumbled getting in, indicative that she had too much to drink.

"You need to tell me where you live," he said.

She gave him directions to the east side of town. He drove; she was quiet. William thought she must not feel well with the motion of the car as her hand was on her stomach. He didn't talk so she could concentrate on the road, lest she be sick.

When they arrived, Lizabeth indicated where the guest parking was located, but William asked where _her_ spot was. "You're not coming home tonight," he pointed out.

"Oh yeah!" she slurred, and he pulled into a covered area and went to help her out.

When she stood, she wobbled, and he had to put an arm out to help her. "You okay?"

"I don't think so," Lizabeth said, almost sounding as if she was going to cry. "I think I may throw up."

"That's probably a fitting end to your evening," William quipped, "given everything else."

"it's probably not very lady-like," she moaned.

"I don't think you have to be lady-like, especially right now," he placated.

He tenderly walked her to the building and helped her up the stairs. Lizabeth slipped once, but William caught her; luckily, she also had a hold of the railing as well.

She had to fumble to get her purse unzipped. He couldn't help but think that she was very intoxicated, but helping her with her purse wasn't an activity he could off to help with. Lizabeth finally got her purse open, got the keys out, unlocked the door, and stumbled through. William was assaulted by a chorus (at least it seemed) of meows as a tiny but vocal kitten scolded them.

"Don't let her get out," she called, stumbling as she leaned over to ensure that the cat didn't escape through the open door. She fell on her heels, and he had to grab an arm. He also reached down and grabbed the kitten, who was still small enough to fit in his hand.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Is _she_ okay?" Lizabeth cried, the words a slur.

"Yes," he replied as the kitten squirmed in his firm grasp, still howling. Lizabeth righted herself, and William shoved the kitten into her hands before making sure the door was firmly shut and locked. She talked to the creature in the way that people did with small animals, standing next to the apartment's front door. He had only intended to drop her off and leave, but now he was worried.

"Um, Lizabeth," he began. She cradled and cooed at the kitten in her arms. The thing had at least stopped chattering at them and was purring. He wondered if it would want food and start howling again. "You should get out of your coat," he prompted, "and your heels." He didn't want her falling again.

"Oh, yeah. _Here_, hold her," she said.

"I don't need to hold her," he protested as the kitten was passed back. He could only think about the fur that he would get on his coat. She took hers off and threw it on the couch and then leaned down to undo the buckles on her heels. When she wobbled, Lizabeth thought better of it and walked over to sit down on the couch so she wasn't too dizzy.

"You should hang your coat up," she announced as she flicked off first one shoe, then the other. The second went flying across the living space to land near the kitchen; then she leaned back on the couch, sprawled and looking comfortable. William thought he should pass back the cat and take his leave. Her eyes closed; she looked serene—almost to the point of sleep.

He gave up and cradled the cat against his chest since it squirmed in his fist. "Lizabeth?" he called. She didn't respond, but the kitten started meowing vociferously. He thought it was hungry, so he walked into the kitchen, hoping he didn't have to look too far for food. There were stacks of tiny cans marked 'kitten chow' on the counter next to the fridge.

William didn't know what vessel to use, so he opened a cupboard at random, pulled out a small plate, and hoped she didn't object (they were all the same: white). He peeled back the cover on the tin, turned it upside down over the plate, and put it on the floor. The kitten, who had been yowling since he put it down, started eating as soon as the plate was set next to it. He wasn't sure if the kitten was greedy or starving, but it seemed to swallow the contents of the whole can within seconds. He worried that it would choke, then he was concerned that once the plate was licked clean, it would cry for more.

He didn't feel he could justify feeding it another can but bent his frame down to look at the cat. "No more. I don't know what your instructions are." The damn cat rubbed against his legs then. They had a stand-off about the food, but the cat eventually gave up having a stare-down for food. Instead, she pounced up and leaped onto his legs with needle-like claws.

"Oh my god! Ow!" He tried to peel her off his leg, but as he stood, he realized that the kitten was still clinging there (she was probably embedded in his leg). She started to howl again. William glanced over at Lizabeth, who looked to be asleep. He sat at the small dining table. Sitting down relaxed the kitten's hold, but she merely curled up and went to sleep on his lap.

"That's not what I had in mind either, you idiot!" He didn't know how the darn thing knew he didn't like cats. It seemed to be an in-bred instinct that cats knew he didn't care for them. The creature had an awesome motor on it as he stroked it. He almost didn't need to pet her; he could merely put his hand on top and wiggle his fingers as his whole hand practically covered its body. He sat quietly, letting the rumbling and purring under his hand distract him from considering how he got into this situation — being in a strange woman's kitchen with an orange cat on his lap (and of all the days to be wearing black pants).

"Why couldn't you be black?" he asked the kitten, but she didn't answer. Again, William looked over at Lizabeth, who hadn't moved. He worried that she was asleep. It was too cold to sleep on a couch without covers. He also worried that with all that drink, she would be sick; she might need a bucket if he left her in that position.

"Okay, you, I need to take care of Lizabeth now." He scooped his hands underneath the sleeping kitten, stood up, and molded her to his chest. There was a throw on the couch on one end. He set the kitten down on top of it. She rearranged a paw but continued sleeping off her meal. William turned to look at her owner, who was sleeping off her drink. Lizabeth's head had listed over; he thought her neck would be rather kinked if she slept like that.

_I wonder how I got myself into this?_ He thought. _Because you find her attractive_, he answered, _though is she just as beautiful when she's drunk? Yes,_ he answered. He wondered if she looked pale because she was slightly sick from the drink? But the pale skin and dark hair when she slept was an oddly attractive combination. And given everything, getting drunk to get over a bad relationship seemed like the time-tested and reasonable thing to do. William couldn't fault her for it, especially when she dumped that idiot businessman.

He was worried about looming over her when he woke her, so he knelt in front, and tapped a knee. "Lizabeth. You're going to be cold if you sleep on the couch."

"Hmm," she replied.

"Lizabeth."

"Ed?" Her eyes didn't seem to function properly, and she opened one, and then the other, but not both at the same time. "William?"

"I brought you home, remember?"

"Oh _yeah_," she smiled weakly as she drew out the word.

"You better get to bed. The piano player said something about you having to work tomorrow?" he reminded her.

"Oh!" She groaned. "I'm going to be so hungover tomorrow. I shouldn't have drunk so much." He nodded and made a sound in agreement. "I can't move," she said then.

"Look, can I get you blankets?" he offered.

"Help me up," one hand reached out.

"This is going to embarrass both of us tomorrow," William said in a very stern voice. "I think I should get you some blankets and let you sleep here."

Somehow, she managed to notice the cat. "It's the kitten's bed; I can't sleep here. Besides, she'll wake me up, and I won't sleep. _William_," she pleaded, managing to open both eyes to look at him. "Help me to bed."

"What have I gotten myself into?" he murmured. He stood, leaned over, and put an arm around the back of her, helping her to stand. She shuffled down the hallway, her body heavy against his.

"Back bedroom," she barked.

"Okay." William hauled her along, and she stumbled through the doorway. He didn't want to let go of her, but she leaned towards the bed like there was a magnet pulling at her, and he let her fall onto it. She landed with an 'oomph.'

"Oh," she wailed. Her hair spilled over her face. A hand came up in an attempt to wipe it out of her eyes. "I feel sick."

William turned quickly to look for a garbage can. There was a fancy wicker one, but nothing so practical as a plastic container that he could find. He sprinted down the hall to a bathroom. Inside was a plastic, utilitarian wastebasket, and he ran back to the bedroom.

Oddly, he found her sitting up; he couldn't believe that she had managed to move. Lizabeth was attempting to get her hair out of her face. William deposited the can between her knees then ran his large hands through her hair, sweeping all of it out of the way. He held her hair with one hand. His timing was impeccable as she threw up into the trash can.

"I'm sorry," she moaned, sounding miserable. Then she threw up again. "I feel terrible."

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Yes," Lizabeth answered. He didn't want to let go of her hair until she could wash her face.

"Hold your hair," he ordered. A hand came up to clasp her hair. He went back to the bathroom. She was the type that had matching washcloths stacked neatly on top of the towels. He snagged a washcloth, wet it, and grabbed the towel as well. He found her in the same position, though she had turned from white to green. He hoped she wasn't going to throw up again.

"Here," he gave her the washcloth. She wiped her face, then he gave her the towel. "I am going to empty the can, but will bring it back and leave it by your bedside."

"Okay," she moaned. He didn't think there was a creature more pathetic.

"Why don't you lie down," he suggested. She flopped backward and closed her eyes.

_Why am I doing this? _He thought again as he took her keys and took the can to the outside bin. All for a woman he barely knew. He brought back the empty bin.

_Wasn't I just going to drop her off?_ William considered as he brought her a glass of water. She appeared to be sound asleep again, but he shook her and insisted that she drink it. "You'll feel much better in the morning. I'm going to go now," he explained.

"How am I supposed to get to work tomorrow? My car is at the hotel," she suddenly argued.

"A taxi," he quipped. He thought he had done more than enough and wasn't going to offer to come back to drive her to work in the morning.

"What if the cat needs help?" the pitiful voice pleaded, "what if she needs something in the middle of the night?"

He thought he could recreate this scene in one of his productions, and no one would buy it. "Do you need me to stay to look after the cat?" he asked in exasperation. _Why the hell did I just offer that?_

"Yes," she answered and turned on her side, asleep. There was no arguing with her. He'd offered, she'd accepted; it was a done deal. He had no idea where anything was but poked around. There was a closed door in the hallway, which was a second bedroom with a made-up bed. William figured he'd sleep there and avoid the cat hair on the couch. Shucking everything that wasn't necessary, he crawled in bed and fell asleep.

He felt like no time had passed when howling woke him up. "That damn cat," he said in a low voice and threw back the covers. The creature sat beside his bed, looking up at him expectantly. "Oh no you don't!" he said, looking down at it. The kitten stopped mewling but stared at him, fully expecting to be picked up and put on the bed. It was so small that it _could_ join him.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, but then he wondered why he was asking. The cat pounced at his foot, and William instinctively moved his toes out of the way. "Two a.m. is _not_ the time to play," he said under his breath. (He didn't want to wake up Lizabeth.) The cat moved closer and sat right against his foot. It was warm.

"Just…go back to bed," he told it. She took him at his word and leaped onto the sheets to crawl up them with needle-like precision, purring with self-satisfaction.

"Oh, no!" he yelled. "I am not sharing a bed with a damned cat." The kitten just purred as it kneaded a few times, curled up, and then went to sleep. "Damn," he yelled before he let loose stronger words. But William curled back under the covers, careful not to disturb her. She seemed to have made a nest in the middle of the bed, but he fell asleep.

* * *

A/N: we're in lockdown here in the Bay Area so I may as well up my postings. This depends on my beta keeping up with me.

Back when I was a young single person, I had a boyfriend who claimed he fell in love with me because I _threw up_ with grace and style (please don't tell my husband). I do not ever recommend alcohol to excess, please drink in moderation.

Also, I have a friend I've known since we were teens who claims the height of friendship is holding the other's hair out of her face as she worships the porcelain goddess. We're still friends, decades later.

Maybe these two will be friends now? :)


	10. Chapter 10

The curtains were open, and William found himself assaulted as soon as the sun was up. He also found himself attacked with a paw tapping him on the face. The kitten was very persistent.

"Go away," he growled. The cat poked again. "Go away," he shoved at the little thing, but she protested, _loudly_, at his man-handling her. He was amazed by how noisy such a small creature could be. "Damn it. I'm sorry I fed you last night."

William crawled out of bed thinking that he might need to help the cat down to the floor, but when food was involved, its ability to get itself off of the bed was amazing. He dressed, and the two made their way to the kitchen. Lizabeth wasn't up yet. He figured that she would have a difficult time of it that morning as she had to go to work (not that _he_ didn't), but he set his own hours. She would need to be at the office at 8:00 a.m. It was amazing how much he knew about her when he had only met her…a week ago? He left off thinking about his hostess, as his hostess' cat became more insistent about being fed, so he took care of _that_ task.

Then he looked in vain for a coffee pot. It was a sparse apartment as he poked around, rifilling through the cupboards, but they were bare. He looked in the refrigerator, but it too was bare, not overly stocked with condiments and expired items that cluttered his own and his friends' kitchens. William ate out a lot, but he still had food in the house when it was needed. Even Lizabeth's furniture was modular—as if it had all been bought for _this_ particular place. It wasn't as if she moved from place to place and acquired that assortment of items that everyone did as they moved around and over time. Lizabeth was different, _definitely different_, from other women he knew.

He wondered if he should go in and check on her? But he didn't think that he knew that well to brave what was now a closed door. She had gotten up at some time in the middle of the night and had probably closed the door against the cat (which was why the kitten had sought _him_ out). Now he was faced with being in a stranger's house, wondering what he should do. Wait for her to wake up? Knock on the door? They had no relationship, and _how the hell did I get myself into this_, he wondered. _And why the hell doesn't she have a coffee pot_?

Her keys still sat on the chair by the front door. He could steal them and let himself out to get coffee, which would make the start of his day more palatable. He did that. William wasn't sure if she was a coffee drinker, but he thought that black coffee wouldn't be a bad idea, so he got her some. He also ran into a convenience store and bought himself a toothbrush.

It was past 7:00 when he let himself back into the apartment. It seemed odd to knock when he had the keys, so he didn't.

"Lizabeth?" he called out as he walked in. There was no answer, but he heard the sound of a shower. She _had_ managed to drag herself out of bed. He sat down on the couch and lost himself in checking emails. He thought about work while he drank coffee and waited to play chauffeur. There were the sounds of doors and drawers opening and shutting.

William wondered if Lizabeth even remembered that she had asked him to stay. _That_ would be a surprise, he supposed. The cat lay sleeping next to him on the couch, fed, and content. Maybe she had peeked at the cat, and gone to take her shower figuring he had left?

When Lizabeth Bennet walked down the hall dressed for work, he was startled and looked up from his phone. She screamed.

* * *

Lizabeth woke with her head pounding; she thought she had never experienced such a headache. When she tried to sit up, she found she couldn't, as it felt as though there was a large rock attached to it; she could only lay back against her pillow for a while.

The pain pulsed inside as she tried to remember exactly how she had gotten home. _Someone_ had brought her home. At first, she thought it had been Edgar, then she recalled she had gone to the hotel and discovered that he had cheated on her. She shuddered, which just made her head hurt even more. Finally, she pushed herself up forcefully and propped a pillow behind her head. _William Darcy_ had been at the bar and talked to her. Lizabeth had an idea that _he_ had driven her home, which meant she needed to figure out how to get to work as she didn't have her car.

She thought about the kitten. While her head pounded and was no motivation to get up, the cat's needs got her to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Lizabeth wasn't steady on her feet but managed to shuffle down the hallway to the living area. There was no protesting kitten; Kitty was asleep on the couch. She went to the kitchen and discovered a dessert plate lying on the floor. In a drunken stupor, she must have used it to feed the cat and not the pink cat bowl that she dutifully washed after each use. She opened the dishwasher and saw the kitten's bowl inside.

Lizabeth stopped to give the kitten a few scratches, but Kitty remained sound asleep despite Lizabeth's ministrations. _I must have fed you enough that you're not hungry this morning._ Her thoughts turned towards getting to work. First, she needed a shower; then she would figure out how to get there. She also hoped that the hot water would help soothe the pounding in her head, which it did. She couldn't fathom the idea of breakfast but _was_ thirsty. Lizabeth knew she had some seltzer water in the refrigerator, which might settle her stomach.

When she stumbled down the hallway into the living area, a man was sitting on her couch. She screamed and had to put a hand out to steady herself against the wall as her headache erupted again.

"Lizabeth, it's me," William Darcy called as he threw out one arm, it had a phone in it. His other hand held a large paper cup of coffee.

"What are you doing here!" she cried. Her hand still attempted to find some support from the wall. She moved forward a few feet to lean on the kitchen counter for support.

"I drove you home," he said. The kitten was curled beside him.

"Why are you still here? And why didn't I see you earlier when I checked on the cat?" she exclaimed. Her heart beat thunderously, and the pulse made her squint because of the pain.

"You asked me to stay _because_ of the cat." He looked at the kitten. Only the barest hint of breath could be discerned. "I went out for coffee since you were still sleeping." He held up the coffee cup as evidence. "Got you some too. You don't have a coffee maker."

She brought a hand up to shield her eyes; the light added to the pain. She pinched and massaged her temples with her thumb and ring finger. That helped a little. "I don't remember you coming inside. I _think_ I remember you driving me home," she conceded.

"You felt sick for most of the ride home. I figured I would just drop you off, but you were wobbly in those heels, so I had to help you up the stairs. Then you fell asleep on the couch while I fed your cat. Then I helped you to bed."

"I don't remember any of that." Lizabeth shuddered in alarm that someone had been in her apartment and that she couldn't recall _anything_.

"You took off your shoes and flung them off rather haphazardly. There's one right there," he said. She looked down at the lone heel near her foot.

"You stayed? Did you sleep on the couch?" she asked.

"No, I discovered your spare room," he answered. William relaxed and leaned back into the couch cushions.

"Oh," she replied. "I guess I have to thank you even if I don't remember?"

"It's okay if you're a little freaked out, but I got you coffee, it's on the table," he pointed towards the dining table.

"Thanks. I usually make coffee at work," she remarked as she moved to retrieve the cup. It felt good to merely hold it, but she also took a sip. The coffee was perfect. Lizabeth took another sip. She turned to look at William; they were sitting about as far apart in her living space as they could.

"Did I really ask you to stay?" she asked.

"Yes," he seemed confused by the question as though his presence shouldn't be questioned, but she wasn't the best at reading body language.

Lizabeth was troubled with having a man in her apartment (not ever having had one before who had stayed). She was surprised and confused and attracted. He looked handsome for someone who had just gotten out of bed, and he couldn't have been up that much longer. She wondered what it would be like to wake up next to someone in bed. That thought set her pulse racing in her veins and made her head pound more.

"The coffee helps," she remarked, attempting to distract herself from her current thoughts.

William said, "I'm glad, are you ready to go?"

"I sort of forgot why I came into the front room," Lizabeth answered.

"Keys, shoes, breakfast?" he listed off the obvious. "Have you brushed your teeth, finished all the things you need to do in the bathroom?"

"I guess I need to make one last circuit, don't I?" She was fuzzy-brained.

"I took care of the cat," he said.

"I guess that's why she's content." They turned to look at the sleeping kitten. "I keep meaning to ask the Judge if I can bring her to work, so she doesn't go crazy and keep pouncing on me when I get home."

"Let me know when you need to leave." William went back to his phone. Lizabeth thought her head better for the coffee, but left the cup on the kitchen counter as she did a sweep of the house. She didn't find anything left undone but did one last check in the bathroom mirror.

She looked blurry-eyed with circles under her eyes. While she had never been one for make-up, she thought a little concealer was in order. Once she got home that night, she could get straight into her jammies. But for now, she had to face a long day of work with a hangover.

"I'm ready," she told her companion of the morning. He really did look remarkably put together. She assumed he had slept in his clothes. Maybe he was comfortable enough to sleep naked but then felt her cheeks heat as she considered _that_ image. "Sorry, I don't have a toothbrush to loan you," she said.

"Got one when I got coffee," he replied.

"Oh," she gasped. Was that what you did after spending the night with someone? Run out to buy a toothbrush?

"I better get you to work in case there is an arrogant guy at the door waiting to be let in," was his next comment.

"I think you're the only one who's ever yelled at me for not being there on time," she remarked as she tied her shoes. Lizabeth picked up her coat.

"I still have your keys," he said and rattled them in his fist.

"Thanks, can I just say this is a little weird?"

"Yeah, let's just get going," he barked. "I have my own agenda today." They got outside, and Lizabeth turned a little too quickly and felt pain flash in her head.

William put a hand out to steady her. "Careful." He locked the front door.

She made it down the stairs only to notice his car parked in her covered space. "You parked in my spot!" Suddenly incensed with him, the morning, and the entire change to her routine.

"It's not like you were going to drive back last night," he remarked. He seemed distant.

Lizabeth went from affronted to deflated in the space of a few seconds. He seemed gruff now; perhaps he _did_ have things to do. She supposed that he hadn't had a shower yet and probably wasn't hungover and was ready to eat—though she was _not_. Lizabeth cradled the cup of coffee which she had retrieved from the kitchen counter as they drove in silence to the city center.

"Is that guy going to be waiting for you?" William asked at last.

"Doug? He's _always_ there. He claims he has an office, but I don't think he does."

"Okay, if I just drop you off?" he asked when they were a few blocks away.

"Yeah, that's fine," she answered. She was lost in her head, thinking about the newness of this encounter.

Lizabeth couldn't help having an almost out-of-body experience as she considered that this man had spent the night, though not in the way that most people consider. _But there had been a man in her apartment_. He had been there when she had showered. If she had turned right when she was wrapped in the towel, William would probably have just been coming back from fetching coffee. Lizabeth would have seen _him_; he would have seen _her_. She couldn't help thinking that she was immature for such thoughts. But it was all new; she was still figuring life out.

Lizabeth had days on end when the same things happened over and over and over. And yet there could be a day like this. Friends did this all the time, spent the night at someone's house, then drove into work together, even if they weren't lovers, even if they'd stayed at a girlfriends' home (she didn't have much experience of _that_ sort of thing either). Her mother had controlled her friends so much—Lizabeth never got to go to sleepovers.

But she supposed if you lived with somebody and you worked near each other, there _might_ be days that you drove into work together. What if you worked at the same company? Would you share a car ride? Particularly if you lived in a place with those diamond lanes? What would it be like?

The car slowed. "Hey, there are _two_ people waiting for you," William remarked, glancing at the recording office door as he pulled in front. It wasn't a red zone, but the meters didn't allow for long-term parking, which made it an unpopular parking option.

"It's Doug…and…_Ed_," Lizabeth said, gulping as she looked at the two figures standing by the front door.

"Ed, your ex, Ed?" he asked.

"I don't want to speak to him." All of Lizabeth's happy little relationship thoughts and speculations crashed down into her stomach to twist and turn and ferment as she looked at Edgar Stone, who hadn't noticed her in William's car.

"Do you want me to park and walk you in?" William asked.

"That would make it worse. I'll get out," she opened the car door.

"Liza, Liza, Liza, you're late!" Doug quipped, in an over-the-top fake British accent.

"Sorry, Doug, I was out late last night," she apologized.

Ed turned. He'd been peering through the office doors as though she might come in through the back door. "Beth!" he was instantly angry.

"Oh!" Doug's face went from cheerful jokester to somber as Lizabeth looked at the two of them. She had mentioned her boyfriend, but Doug and Edgar had never met.

"I've been waiting for you. I got here _early_, so we could _talk_. It's important that we _talk_!" Then Edgar saw the car and that there was a strange man behind the wheel. "Who's that?" His voice grew sharper.

"That's my friend, William. He drove me here because I left my car at the bar last night," she explained carefully.

"What! Did he come home with you? _Spend the night_?" Ed spit out.

"That's none of your concern!" she countered.

"You've not replied to any of my texts. We have things to talk about," his voice rose.

"Ed, I need to go to work. _Now_ is not the time!" Lizabeth tried to be clear. Edgar stepped forward and reached out an arm as if to grab her, but she stepped clear.

"Hey!" said Doug. "Leave her alone, man." A car door opened, and William joined them.

"Ed, I have nothing to say to you. That's why I've not replied to you. It's _over between us_!" Lizabeth couldn't help shouting.

"No, it's _not_," Edgar argued. "I want to marry you. It can't be over."

"It is. I _never_ wanted to marry _you_!" Lizabeth was trying very hard to remain in control and not to cry. She needed to go to work; it would provide structure. But her headache came crashing back. "I want nothing more to do with you."

"I'm not letting you go," said Ed. "_I_ am not over _you_."

"I don't know what to say," she began. "It's done between us. I had a nice chat with people at the hotel bar, and I found out what you do during the week. You've been seeing other women while you've been dating me. Would you continue to do _that_ after we married? I don't know what to think, Ed." Her voice broke. "But I know for sure that I don't want to marry you. I NEVER wanted to marry you. I just thought we were dating." She tried to move past him, but he swerved suddenly and grabbed her arms. The coffee cup in her hands dropped to the ground, the lid popped off, and its contents spilled out.

William was there then. "Let her go," he declared. When Ed didn't do it, he repeated, "let her go."

"You're mine!" Ed said, ignoring William, his hands moved to Lizabeth's shoulders to shake her.

"I'll say it one more time: let her go." William came to Lizabeth's side, staring down at Edgar. He probably had four inches on him.

Doug came up on the other side, "step back, man."

"Fuckers," Edgar growled. His hands fell to his side. "I won't forget."

"It's _over_, Ed," Lizabeth declared. "Don't call me _anymore_ or _text_ me, ever again." She stepped back, moving closer to William, who put a tentative hand on her arm.

"Fuck," Ed muttered; he moved to leave.

"You okay, Lizabeth?" said Doug. "Was that _really_ your boyfriend?"

"My ex-boyfriend," she said as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," said Doug.

"Sorry, too," said William. "But, I'm glad I stayed the night and drove you to work."

"I'm glad I'm such a screw-up and am always here in the morning," Doug remarked. There was silence. "Come on, isn't anyone going to laugh?"

"I better open the doors," said Lizabeth, wiping her tears. "It's going to be a long day."

"How about I get you more coffee, or are you ready to eat now?" William asked.

"Something simple, like a bagel with nothing on it," she answered, still wiping at her eyes.

"Look, I know where to go. I'll run to the café and get poor Liza here something," Doug offered.

She fumbled in her purse for her keys. "My god, I can't find my keys!" she wailed.

"I have them, remember? I locked the front door," William placated.

She turned to catch his eye. "I'm a mess, but I think I've hit rock bottom, so it can only get better, right?" she said as she plastered a Cheshire Cat grin on her face.

"Right, it can only get better," he repeated. William handed her the keys and said good-bye. She unlocked the door.

She usually dreaded Fridays and now had more reason to be concerned with her headache and this drama with Edgar. She would be in luck as there weren't too many forgetful people swinging by to conduct business at the recording office that day.

Doug showed up with coffee and a toasted bagel. "I had them put a little butter on it," he explained, which she thought she could stomach.

* * *

A/N: we all need people like Doug in our lives.

On another note, the governor has closed down the entire state of California. I find, however, that I don't feel creative so I am not writing, right now. That next fanfict just sits there as I stare at it. I am sewing, color is cheerful and inspiring.


	11. Chapter 11

Volume 2: THEY

Lizabeth quietly processed paperwork and answered questions when someone came in and managed to eke through the morning. Hunger replaced her headache, and she was thinking about lunch (though there was over a half-hour to the break) when someone came in to file a fictitious business statement.

It was a young man wanting to file a statement with another odd name about mining: Dude! What's Mine is Mine Ventures. He was overly flirtatious and made her repeat every word he said or pulled every word from her, winking as he did (even blowing her a kiss once) as she talked him through the process. Her instinct was to lean across the counter and slug him, though she resisted. Lizabeth simply wished he would leave and tried her best to get through the paperwork as fast as she could, but he, in turn, delayed everything as long as possible.

She noticed someone else come in out of the corner of her eye and sighed inwardly that she was going to be late for lunch. The imbecile in front of her repeated a question about a line on the form for the third time, which made her grit her teeth. Lizabeth glanced over and saw that it was William who had entered; he smiled gently.

"Hey, I came to take you to lunch. Is that okay?" William asked.

"Yeah. I'm almost done," she answered.

"I'm not," said the man with the form. His name was David.

"Yes, you are, you only need to sign it," she snapped. A half-hour of inanity was enough.

"So, what do I need to do again?" David pressed.

"I've explained this three times already, and it's on the paperwork I gave you," Lizabeth answered.

"Alright, and I come back in a month?" he showed no signs of heading to the exit.

"Only if you didn't do things correctly, then I send you a note in the mail. And the office is closing for lunch, so you need to leave," she pressed.

"What about him?" David pointed at William.

"He's leaving too; we all are," she said as she collected her purse and walked out from behind the counter to stare pointedly at the man until he gathered up his paperwork.

David rolled the papers in a tube and whacked his arm. "Right, leaving now," he said and finally left.

"Do you have to put up with people like that most days?" William asked.

"I get about one a week like that, but recently, there've been a run on this weird, almost creepy type that are _all_ filing fictitious business names. And that's more than I should be saying," she stopped herself.

"Why?"

"Confidentiality," she replied. "I shouldn't be discussing who uses our services. People have a right to privacy and confidentiality, even if they are buttheads."

"I respect that about you," William said.

"It's just _difficult_ sometimes when I need to talk about things that bother me," she continued.

"Have you tried talking to Judge Metcalfe about it?" he suggested.

"The Judge is too distracted right now."

"Well," he paused, pointing. They had been walking to the Hill Café, "I thought here since it's close, and you can get back to work quickly."

"Yes, thanks," said Lizabeth.

"Would you consider talking to me? I don't live in town; I'm just a visitor. I'm likely to be leaving soon and won't be back for months. What if I promise not to share the information with anyone else? Sometimes—what is that adage—a burden shared is a burden halved?"

"I suppose," she said. "I'll think about it." They got a table inside. It was noisy and crowded with the usual bustling lunchtime activities. "I'm surprised you came back—are you checking up on me?" Lizabeth asked after they had ordered.

"I'm just a responsible person. Once I've taken on a job, I need to see it through. After I saw you home, I had to make sure you'd recovered from being sick."

"Being sick?" Her eyes widened.

"You don't remember that?" he asked.

"No!" Lizabeth's voice rose an octave. She leaned over and whispered, "was I sick last night?" She reached for her water and took a sip to cover her embarrassment. Her cheeks were red. "I was quite a fool."

"All in all, I think getting plastered was an appropriate response, given everything," he replied. Lizabeth didn't know what to say to that. "But I'll leave you be, once I've assured you've eaten," he said.

"Doug brought me a bagel," she asserted.

"Did you eat it?" he asked.

"Half," she admitted.

"No fainting on the job," William admonished.

"Yes, sir!" she replied in mock obedience, though she was still embarrassed about the whole situation. How this man had become so involved in her life, she had no idea. The café had a readily available lunch menu with items that were easily customized. Their order arrived quickly.

"So, did you want to share?" he pressed.

"How much longer are you going to be around?" Lizabeth countered.

"Caroline is coming up tonight. I figure we will go back to Los Angeles tomorrow, or Sunday. It will be six to nine months before we come back to film, _if_ we film here. So, I'll be out of your hair, sight unseen, for a long time."

"I'm not likely to see you again?" she mused, unsure how she felt about losing a friend for so long.

"I wouldn't say that," said William. "Maybe you'll be in LA for some reason?"

"I doubt it. I don't get much vacation, and I don't go anywhere unless I visit my parents. I doubt Mom would approve. She doesn't like LA."

"How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

Lizabeth thought she blushed again. "Twenty-five. I just had my birthday last week." He made no further comment, and they ate in silence for a while.

"So, your interesting issue at work?" William prompted.

"This feels unethical. But you're right; I tried to talk to Judge Metcalfe, though I haven't attempted to speak to him about it again. But there's been this series of people, _men_, who've been coming in to create fictitious businesses, but they all have funny names. Part of their names always include the word 'mine' or 'mining' and 'ventures' in them," she explained.

"Like gold-mining or ore?" he asked.

"Yeah," she nodded, pulling the tomato out of her sandwich, "it seems too much of a coincidence. They have to be related. A _type_."

"What kind of type?"

"I mean that the men all seem a kind of type. Those loner, gamer types who still live with their mother even though they're thirty, though I really am stereotyping."

"I don't know if I have any context," said William. A crease appeared between his eyebrows. "I've never thought about mining and businesses before."

"I thought they might be playing games professionally. But I can't believe so many men play games in Merton, not that I've researched it. They'd have to be making money at it if they wanted to file a fictitious name, don't you think?"

"So _you_ tell _me_," said William, and he sat back in his chair. "Why do people file fictitious names?"

"Generally, people run small businesses out of their house, and instead of using their own name, they want some original name which states what they are doing. Say a woman is self-employed and a hobbyist and makes baskets. Instead of using Jane Doe, she uses 'Weaves On.'"

"Oh," he grunted as he chewed.

"Or, a man does taxes and wants a more formal name. Instead of John Smith, it's Smith Tax Preparer Services. Says what he does."

"But mining?"

"I know, right?"

"I can't think of anything," William admitted. They finished lunch and bused their table. He walked Lizabeth back to work and said goodbye.

"Thank you for lunch," she said. "Thank you for _everything_."

"You're welcome," he said.

* * *

William thought about how much time he had lost that week as he went back to his aunt's house to pack. He planned to meet Caroline once she showed, but he needed to return home the next day—_for sure_, this time, for all that he'd been claiming that he was going to go; he _needed_ to go. Caroline showed no signs of stress for having to bear the brunt of the company business while he had been in Merton. She was exceptional at her job.

"I hate travel," Caro quipped. "I'm considering charging you for a driver for our next production. I could work in the backseat while someone else worries about getting across town or this damn state."

"So says a non-native," William responded. "When you're born in California, it's in your nature to take driving everywhere in stride. Besides, it's not like the production company is top-tier. I don't live in a mansion."

"You at least live in a house. Do you know how few people in LA own houses?" she pointed out.

"True. LA is a big place," he agreed. "It just depends on how far we live from our work. I did more scouting and found two houses which I think would look great for the outside shots for _Bella Montaña_," he said as they finally sat down to discuss details.

"We'll use sets, of course," she said.

"Of course. To film inside would be an astronomical cost, though there was something about Metcalfe's gardens that struck me. I think that we might put that to good use. Gardens can figure into a lot of scenes."

"You have a point there," Caroline agreed. They went over the details of the first eight episodes that had been written. "Do we have any idea how we're going to end the first season?" she asked.

"Family tension," William grumbled.

"Usually, the first season of any show is simple because we're introducing characters. We've got a brother and sister. We've got the flapper era and women's rights. The war has ended," Caro outlined.

"That's enough right there, don't you think?" he argued.

"We need a cliffhanger," she asserted.

"Pregnancy?"

"Been done," she murmured.

"He comes out of the closet?"

"Charles would never agree to that. We'd have to get a new leading man. Besides, it wasn't talked about then, which is a shame," she rolled her eyes.

"Yes," he agreed. "But maybe it's time we talked about gays in the twenties, the _roaring_ twenties and all. There were gays then, right?"

"Yes," she said. "But that was speakeasies and city life, and we're talking about family dynasties in rural America. Homosexuality wasn't talked about there or _then_."

He thought about his family. "What if one of the kids wants the patriarch to split up the land, have their share? The daughter pushing for equal rights?"

"I don't think that would have ever been considered back then," Caroline argued. "This is just a show. But who knows? It was a time just on the heels of women getting the vote. We'd have to look at women's property rights," she continued warming to the subject.

"Would it be possible for a father to split up his land and give half to his daughter and half to his son? Otherwise, we're stuck with an illegitimate son showing up and claiming his part, because of course, he's older than Charles."

"That's always good for the first season," she commented.

"We never know if we're going to get a second season. But we don't want to play our entire hand the first season." They argued back and forth about what to do with _Bella Montaña_.

"So…was there a reason that I had to come back up for this, and are you still pursuing Lizabeth?" Caro asked suddenly.

"I didn't stay because of Lizabeth Bennet," William protested.

"I don't think you needed to spend an entire week with your aunt. I know how much she winds you up," remarked his fellow producer and confidant.

"Yeah, but it's her bi-decade sale of property as it's her only source of income. I feel an obligation to Anne that if they're going to do it, someone should ensure the best outcome."

"I _suppose_," Caroline agreed. "But you couldn't keep your eyes off of Lizabeth when we were having breakfast last Sunday. It's been a while since you had a girlfriend."

"Any objections to my pursuing Lizabeth?" he murmured.

"I liked her in the short amount of time that I spent with her," Caro began. There was something about the way she modulated her voice, and the entire way that she introduced the topic, which made him pay attention.

"But you're going to object," he interrupted.

"_No_," drawled Caroline. "She's _different_ from anybody else you've come across in your thirty whatever years. But I just think you might be a bit of a steamroller with her."

"What? A _bully_? You're trying to say I bully women?" he protested.

"Hmph!" Caroline sighed and sipped her cocktail. "For as many years as I have known you, William Patrick Darcy, there are times when I'm at a loss as to how to talk to you," she said, exasperated. "I feel like we're married sometimes. Like we're this old, bickering couple who've forgotten how to talk to each other—like I can't figure out how to tell you something."

"What's this got to do with Lizabeth? I thought we were good friends, Caroline?" William asked, confused. "We've been working together for ten years. Ever since I got started and you came to me and asked for an internship."

"I know," she said, a little flustered, which was not Caroline Bingley's usual manner. "Sometimes, I wish I wasn't a lesbian. We would've made the perfect power couple, don't you think?"

"I don't know that I ever thought about it. We certainly make a good power couple _now_. I don't see why we have to bring sex into this," he answered.

"Well, maybe that's what I'm trying to say," Caroline pressed, staring hard at him.

"Are you worried that I am going to hire Lizabeth to replace you if I sleep with her?" he asked.

"_No_," she replied firmly. "I'm not worried about Lizabeth as my competition, either for your bed or my job."

"Can't you just spit it out!" he asserted, feeling like they were dancing around some topic, though he had no idea what it was.

"She's been sheltered…a lot."

"Yes, I got that sense," William said, still exasperated and frustrated and feeling his anger rise, but then he continued, "but she's twenty-five and living on her own. She's got that creepy ex, and maybe she needs a little protection, a little coddling, but I still don't see the point you're trying to make."

"Damnit William." Caro was calm and collected as she stared at him. Her voice lowered. "She's never slept with anyone."

He could only stare with his mouth hanging open at his co-producer. Such an idea had never occurred to him. He stared for a full minute. "I thought everybody lost their virginity before they left high school or in their first year of college."

"Not _everybody_," she quipped. He felt oddly numb about that information and wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Caro excelled at holding her tongue, which made her an excellent producer. She was quiet now. William felt it was one time when he wanted her to speak; he wanted _advice_.

"You probably think I shouldn't pursue her because of this?" he finally asked after the silence got to him.

"No," she answered.

"No keeping her up on some pedestal to worship as a virgin goddess?" William asked.

"No."

"No admonishments to go gently as I debauch her?"

"No," replied Caroline. "Well…be gentle. I don't think I know your sexual preferences. It's not something we've shared over work cocktails."

William thought he blushed. "I'm so glad I don't have a human resources department as I am sure we would both get in trouble for this."

"Consider us off the clock," she commented.

"Why?" he said, a little louder than he intended. "I guess I still am finding no logic to you bringing up this topic, besides embarrassing me."

"I like her. I think she's wasted in this little town. But a woman's first time can make or break her, I think."

"Sounds like you're lusting after her just as much as I am," he remarked.

"She's beautiful in a different way, I admit that," said Caroline. "But Lizabeth wouldn't ever give me a chance. I wonder if she wouldn't look good on film?"

"I had the same thought. She's got the type of body that the camera would love."

"I can see her acting," she admitted.

"But what has that got to do with my sleeping with her?" he pressed.

"They're not related. I got off-topic," Caro admitted. "As I said, I like her and don't want to see her hurt with you banging her one night and then leaving and never coming back."

"I'll be back when we begin filming," he said, though he knew that was a lame comment.

"I don't normally go to bat for my fellow women, I guess," she explained. "But she was in the bar on Sunday because she'd just been chewed up and spat out in an awful way with that boyfriend the night before."

"I'm not even going to ask what happened," he interrupted.

"Don't jump to conclusions. And if you can't keep your hands off of her, just, as I said, be _gentle_. You're going to be faced with a woman's first time which means expectations and usually romance, which are high hurdles to jump."

"Virgin goddess," he murmured.

"No!" she cried. "Don't make this a huge deal either. Be mindful, but don't be a bastard about it either."

"I think you're just worried I'll actually date her and then start spending too much time up here. I'd be away from LA and the office and work," he accused.

"There's that too," Caroline remarked as she swallowed the last of her drink.

* * *

Lizabeth managed to get through her afternoon, locked the office doors, and made it home. She and the kitten ate dinner and lounged on the couch, napping there before moving to the bedroom. She had wanted to establish boundaries and insist that Kitty not sleep with her or have access to her bedroom, but she was tired and didn't enforce the rule that evening as she crawled in bed and fell right asleep.

Pounding in her head woke her up. Kitty was poking at her cheek, insisting on food, and a headache (probably the remnants of the one from Friday) motivated her to get up. She fed the cat, took something for her head then blissfully fell asleep again.

There was more pounding. Lizabeth opened her eyes, confused. Kitty wasn't on the bed, nor was the pounding _inside_ her head. It was at her front door. She had no idea who would be visiting, but slipped from her bed and went down the hallway to stare at the door. There was no spy hole. She wondered if it was Edgar coming to demand that they talk, but there was no way to tell who stood there without answering it, and she felt very reluctant to open the door.

"Lizabeth, my baby, let your mother in!"

She unlocked the door and opened it to find her mother and father on the doorstep.

"Baby!" cried Mrs. Bennet and engulfed her in a hug. Her father was looking at his phone. He had an earbud in one ear as his eyes watched the phone's screen, but he followed his wife inside since it was chilly on the small landing.

Lizabeth shut the door in a daze as she had not anticipated her parents' visit (however, their visits were usually never planned). Mrs. Bennet grabbed Lizabeth in a second hug, not considering that her coat was cold and her daughter was only wearing thin pajamas. Mr. Bennet went to sit on the couch, absorbed in his game.

"You've not called me all week!" Dawn Bennet chided as she shrugged out of her jacket and handed it to her daughter to hang up. Lizabeth did, then tapped her father on the shoulder to get his. He peeled it carefully off without disturbing his earbuds (he had popped the second in already). There was an important game on (but then, there was _always_ an important game on).

Dawn was rifling through the cupboards by then, looking at the contents and frowning.

"Mom, this is _my_ house," Lizabeth began, but looking at the determined face of her mother, she gave up. Dawn had to finish opening all the cupboards before she sat at the small kitchen table and patted its top.

"Sit down and tell me all about it!" declared her mother. Then she put a hand under her nose and sneezed.

Lizabeth looked at her father consumed with whatever game he was watching. He wouldn't hear a word she said, though she wondered what topic had gotten her mother to get _Todd Bennet out of bed_ to drive Dawn to Merton on _this weekend of all weekends_. The Super Bowl was on Sunday; there had to be all sorts of commentary about it today, along with his regular sports schedule. She hadn't grown up her father's daughter to not know the schedule for football, basketball, baseball, and even hockey — both professional and college.

"Work?" she deflected. "It's been the usual. Or did you mean the Metcalfe's party? That was so over-the-top it had to be the best party I've been to, _ever_!"

Dawn's face was open, her eyebrows raised in expectation of happy news; her lips were open slightly. "The party? No dearest, not the party! I want to hear all about you and Edgar!" Lizabeth didn't think it was possible, but those eyebrows (beautifully enhanced with a dark pencil) rose even more, and Mrs. Bennet's mouth opened as she leaned over.

Lizabeth blinked as she wasn't even quite awake yet. She thought of tea and her bed. She wondered where Kitty was (maybe in the spare room). She wondered if she could lie to her mother. She wondered how long her parents would stay, though she at least had sports on her side, so Todd Bennet wouldn't want to spend the night. He had a routine for big sports Sundays, and wasn't Super Bowl Sunday the biggest day of the year?

"Um, Mom, what do you think I have to share? What _did_ Aunt Chrissie tell you?" Lizabeth asked.

"Why that he proposed!" Dawn slapped the table lightly, but then she sneezed.

"Why would she say that? How would _she_ know if _I _didn't say anything?" she asked. Lizabeth didn't want to discuss Edgar's proposal with her mother. She knew just what her mother's view would be: that she should accept and marry him.

"Didn't you tell her?" Those brows creased. "Besides, it was Edward who called me to say that _that nice young man_ had asked you to marry him. Are you thinking of a June wedding? Shall we fly to New York to shop for a wedding dress?"

"Mom, Mom!" Lizabeth had to rein in her mother. "I am _not_ marrying Edgar. We broke up; we didn't get engaged. I don't know why Uncle Ned told you that we were engaged."

"Not engaged!" Again, all of Dawn Bennet's emotions showed on her face, mostly she was in disbelief, though Lizabeth thought there was some anger. "How can you _not_ be engaged! You aren't getting any younger, and he's such a nice young man! Are you _insane_ to pass up such an offer! Todd! _Tell her_, tell your daughter she should marry that nice boy, Edgar."

Mr. Bennet had his earbuds in and appeared not to hear his wife. His brows were furrowed in concentration like his wife's, but only because his basketball game wasn't going to his liking.

"Mom, I don't think I have to marry the first man I've dated," Lizabeth argued.

Her mother sneezed and ran a finger under her nose again, "he's rich, and handsome, and could keep you very well. What more do you want?" she argued as she held her fingers out in front of her to detail Edgar's finest points.

"I want to be in love," Lizabeth argued back. "I don't _love_ Edgar! It was simply nice to have someone to take me out on a Friday night."

"See, nice places, nice things. Think of the house he could buy you." Dawn sneezed three times in succession then. "What is making me sneeze?"

"I don't need nice _things_ to make me happy," Lizabeth declared. "Do you need a tissue?" She stood, eager to move as she could see no end to this argument. Often, she had to merely wait until Dawn had her say and was willing to end the discussion or had something else to do.

"No, let me get it," said her mother. She probably wanted to poke around in the bathroom while she was at it. Dawn disappeared. Lizabeth heard the door shut and a loud sneeze at the same moment.

She went to sit on the couch next to her father. He briefly looked her way then back at the screen. His phone was one of the extra-large ones which he chose because he spent so much time streaming sports. Todd Bennet had quite the set-up at home.

Lizabeth gently pulled one of the earbuds out of his ear. "Basketball?"

"Yup, college. Baylor's not looking so good. I'm worried." He didn't look at his daughter but kept his eyes on his screen.

"And you've got the Super Bowl tomorrow, so no way you're spending the night, right?" she asked.

"Right. I didn't want to come, but your mom insisted I drive her this morning. Something about you being engaged?" His eyes briefly found Lizabeth's.

"No, Dad, I'm not. Edgar and I broke up. Mom is misinformed."

"Sounds about par for the course with her," he remarked. "And I never liked that Ed guy much."

Her father turned back to his game, and the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes. A scream startled both of them. Lizabeth went to find out what had frightened her mother. Todd watched his daughter walk away before a play distracted him, and he went back to the Baylor/Kansas State game.

"Mom?" Lizabeth asked as she rushed down the hallway. She glanced in the bathroom, but her mother was done rifling through her personal items. Dawn was in her bedroom where Lizabeth could hear her sneezing repeatedly. The closet door was open, and her mother stood with a hand on the frame. Lizabeth was surprised that her mother wasn't going through her clothes, but as she listened to the non-stop sneezing, it hit her that her mother was allergic to cats. Kitty was probably asleep in the closet.

"You have a cat!" Mrs. Bennet cried. Lizabeth stepped up next to her mother and saw that Kitty was curled up on the dirty clothes in the middle of the closet.

"Yes. I got her last week. It's quite a story," she began.

"I hate cats," Dawn sneezed. "I'm allergic to them!" She sneezed again. "You'll have to get rid of it right away!" She turned to glare at her daughter in her most disdainful, 'you've been a bad girl' look she could muster as her eyes teared up.

Lizabeth felt a small blow to her chest, in a physical way, from her mother's reaction. Dawn had practiced beating her down for years, and Lizabeth had given in, _always_. The only way she asserted herself had been to sneak around, but she didn't want to cheat anymore.

"No, Mom. I love her. I rescued her. She's mine, and I'm keeping her."

"What!" screamed her mother. "You can't have a cat," a series of sneezes came then, and Dawn had to wipe her nose on her sleeve. "You _must_ get rid of the cat. I could never spend the night. I can only visit for a few minutes, _achoo_!" She moved away from the closet towards Lizabeth's bed. There was a box of tissues on the bedside table, and Dawn pulled out three or four with violent jerks.

"Mom, I am keeping the kitten. I've never had a pet, and I want one," she argued.

Dawn blew her nose and wiped her eyes. "What an ungrateful child you are, Lizabeth Todd Bennet! All the things I've done for you! The _sacrifices_ I have made! I practically gave up my life for you; I gave up my career to slave over you and raise you. And you won't do this one little itty bitty thing for your Mommy?" She looked at her daughter as her eyes widened dramatically, with tears at the edges. It was an oft-repeated scene that Dawn had used over the years. Lizabeth thought it enlightening that today it seemed dramatic and over-the-top when before it had seemed sincere and made her feel guilty.

"No, Mom. This is my house."

"Achoo!" Dawn sneezed again, wiped at her nose and glared at Lizabeth. A series of sneezes came again. Self-preservation kicked in, and Mrs. Bennet had to leave. "You're so ungrateful. I can't believe all the sacrifices I've made for you. And for what! No engagement to that nice young man and a cat! How did I not hear about the cat from Ned? Does he know? Todd, get your coat, we're leaving!" she screeched down the hall.

Lizabeth followed her mother out to the front room. She retrieved her parents' coats from the closet and helped her mother into hers. There was another lecture on ingratitude before Dawn Bennet wiped at her eyes and left.

* * *

A/N: posting when I can. Back from grocery shopping. Odd that store A has eggs and flour, but out of staples, but store B has produce and staples but no butter or eggs. You just need to hit more than one place! Hope everyone is doing well.


	12. Chapter 12

William opted not to return to his Aunt Catherine's house. He and Caroline stayed at the Hilton. They spent the first half of Saturday photographing the various sites that had been earmarked for scenes in _Bella Montaña_. He considered that he should have photographed the Metcalfe's gardens but found his efficient co-producer had taken many pictures with her phone the night of the party. They might do in a pinch since he could think of no excuse to bother the Metcalfes on a Saturday afternoon with Mimi so close to giving birth.

As soon as they finished, Caroline got in her car with a quip, "next time you want me up here, I really _am_ hiring a driver. Too much lost productivity. And don't stay sniffing around too long."

"I'll just get the last of my things from Catherine's and then head home," he assured her.

"I'll believe it when I see it," she retorted.

But William was determined to go. The information that she shared had surprised and stung. In a way, it made him sober up; he felt like Caroline was heaping a lot of responsibility on him. Not that taking anybody's virginity was a responsibility, but she said that it involved expectations and romance. He wasn't sure that any of his relationships had involved that. They had mostly been mutually beneficial. He usually dated actresses, usually _his own_ actresses. Often they were public relationships—a little press had always helped his fledgling production company.

He wasn't sure that he knew how to do romance. That was Charles' purview. William was organization, finances, and the big picture, all about holding everything together. William wasn't about small details, like remembering flowers or birthdays. Hadn't Lizabeth said that she had a birthday a week or so ago? She was just twenty-five, just starting to live.

The producer in his head started crafting a story about such an anomaly in the modern world, then he shook his head and thought _that_ was what Caroline was warning him about. He needed focus if he wanted to consider romancing Lizabeth Bennet and not get lost in work. He did have his moments. That was how he survived. If the details of work were overwhelming, he could find one thing to lose his head in, and focus on, like that long-legged spider at the country club that night when he was waiting for the women to get out of the bathroom and for Charles to show.

William had adopted most of the foibles that LA producers did. He knew how to drink and navigate a room. He'd slept with a few people to achieve what he needed in his thirty-two years, though there was no pleasure in any of those vices. He wasn't a particularly outgoing person which, if anyone had examined him, would think an odd trait for a film producer.

The stereotype of a gregarious, white man working the room, shaking hands, making deals wasn't him. He was more aloof than many others in his profession. He had his looks, at least until he aged more. He had also come into the business with a little money, which many of his contemporaries had _not_. William enjoyed being successful even if he wasn't the epitome of a Hollywood producer.

But when it all got too much, he could just zone out and find something to occupy his mind and push all his troubles away so he wasn't overwhelmed—like driving to the beach to watch the waves crashing or finding a spider crawling on the wall. Secretly, he enjoyed cooking, though few knew that. Even Charles didn't. Charles loved eating out (especially on William's dime), and so long as they went to a decent restaurant, William didn't mind following his friend and leading actor out to eat.

Caroline knew everything about him. In her junior year in college, she had sent him an optimistically cheerful email asking about an internship (hoping that he had money to pay for it as well). But _she_ came from money (East Coast money, but _money_), and her father had been willing to underwrite her bills that summer so she could work for William's fledgling production company. If he had to admit it, that was probably the year that things had turned for him—when he got his first big break.

He thought about her considering them a power couple as he drove back to LA (having managed to sneak into and out of his aunt's house). Caroline Bingley had been good for William Darcy Productions.

* * *

Lizabeth's Sunday with her aunt and uncle was to be a little different because it was Super Bowl Sunday, which was practically a national holiday. There was to be a party at the Gardiner's and friends had been invited. There would be a lot of food, and everyone would be distracted watching the game on TV. She thought she could get by with making an appearance, and not even staying the entirety of the game (and hopefully not having to suffer too many questions). She didn't know how much Edgar had told his parents and how much LuAnn and Ed (the father) had talked to the Gardiners about Ed and Lizabeth's breakup. But because of the other guests, she wouldn't be facing too many point-blank questions.

It turned out that it was mostly Scott's high school friends who came to watch the game. Her cousin seemed distant, and maybe a little embarrassed about his older girl cousin when his mother insisted that he introduce Lizabeth to his half dozen friends. She got Braydon and Tyler (such a popular name) straight, but couldn't remember the others who were dispersed around the media room watching the pre-game show. Uncle Ned had a beer while the others had soft drinks, chips, and sandwiches in their hands, all intently focused on the screen and not on introductions. No one was interested in Lizabeth. No one left her a space to sit down or moved over for Aunt Chrissie.

Her aunt was an excellent cook; one of her specialties was pizza, and it was a _great day_ for pizza. Her dough took twenty-four hours to proof, and a dozen pats lay in wait in her large, restaurant-sized refrigerator.

"Come into the kitchen and help me roll out the dough," Chrissie invited. Lizabeth wasn't quite sure if they were _only_ going to bake pizza, but there was no excuse to give for staying to watch the game with her uncle and cousin. Despite being Todd Bennet's daughter, she couldn't express a huge interest in football, though she followed it to an extent. She trailed behind her aunt into the kitchen.

They were all business, at first, as the cheese was grated, and ingredients were chopped. All the items had to be prepped so they could take individual orders. The game began in the other room, and they could hear the volume rise as the Super Bowl got underway.

"How was your week?" Chrissie asked.

"Well…it's been one like no other," Lizabeth could honestly say. "Definitely something to put in my diary, _if _I kept a diary."

"Really?" Again, there was an eagerness to her aunt's demeanor, one she had seen the previous Sunday as though she was anticipating a full disclosure of the marriage proposal.

"Did you hear about the cat?" Lizabeth asked.

"I _read_ about it. What happened to it?"

"I kept it!" she exclaimed, hoping to launch into the joys and frustrations of cat ownership and avoid other topics.

"I heard about that too," Aunt Chrissie replied.

_She is one who holds her cards close to her chest_, Lizabeth thought suddenly. Chrissie wasn't asking leading questions. She _knew_ about the cat and that Lizabeth had kept it. She wondered if her mother had complained to Ned and Chrissie about the cat as Dawn could now no longer spend the night at her daughter's house. Rather than skirting the issue, Lizabeth barreled straight through. "Mom is appalled," she laughed.

"So I heard," said Chrissie. "Ned had an earful yesterday. Dawn and Todd swung by on their way out of town to enlist our aid in getting you to get rid of it. We were supposed to try our best today."

"I hate that she does this," Lizabeth grumbled as she pulled the seeds out from the middle of a bell pepper. They went spraying over the countertop; some landed on the floor.

"It's your mother's nature, but I'm preaching to the choir about that." Her aunt was sautéing onions in a pan. "A week like no other?" she prompted.

Lizabeth was bold enough to ask, "is there anything you want me to talk about? Or are we going to dance around subjects?"

"Ed," her aunt blurted out. "I want to talk about Ed. You didn't want to talk about him last week, and I gave you space." She took her pan off of the burner. "But I want to know what's going on with Edgar and you."

"We've broken up," said Lizabeth, "_that's_ what's going on with Ed."

Her aunt's hand came to cover her mouth as she gasped. _That_ hadn't been anticipated. "Do you want to talk about it?" Chrissie asked as she dropped her hand and spoke in that comforting and soothing tone she usually employed.

"Not really," Lizabeth answered. She had a knife in her hand because she was going to slice those bell peppers, but thought she should probably put it back down, given the topic. "I've had a chance to talk to friends." Her aunt's face closed up as though a little hurt that Lizabeth wasn't going to _tell all_. "But I will say that I never wanted to marry him. I enjoyed dating him, but it was never my intention to marry him, and his proposal was enough to break the relationship."

"Oh my. Oh my," Aunt Chrissie repeated. "Are you sure you…aren't being _hasty_ in turning down his proposal?"

"Yes!" she asserted. There was no room for argument after that. She wasn't convinced that her aunt would accept what she had to say or why Chrissie felt so vested in Edgar and Lizabeth being together, but there was no room in her life for Edgar Stone, III. She had made that clear to herself; she needed to make that clear to her aunt.

"He's an _atrocious_ person," Lizabeth continued.

"Edgar? No! He's…he's such a nice young man. LuAnn's boy! I've never known a more charming young man. I've always told Tyler to hold him up as an example," said the mother of two sons.

"I think maybe you want to rethink Edgar as a role model for Tyler and Scott," Lizabeth remarked. Chrissie stared at her.

Lizabeth continued. "Edgar and I started dating when I moved here in September, as you know. We had a date once a week, yet Ed has been sleeping with other women two or three times a week when he wasn't with me. I don't know if that's the behavior you want Tyler and Scott to emulate?" She took up her knife and attacked her bell pepper, slicing it as best she could. The results were uneven and irregular. She didn't look up to see her aunt's reaction, but there was a long awkward silence.

Eventually, she heard the clanging of a pan, and the pizza peels being set out. Her aunt was putting cornmeal on them in preparation for the dough. Finally, unable to stand it, she looked at her aunt, who looked mystified more than anything else as she twirled the dough on the backs of her hands before laying it on the peels.

"Shall I take orders?" Lizabeth asked.

"Let's both go in," suggested her aunt as she pressed another dough blank on a pan, then wiped her hands on the dishtowel which was wrapped around her waist. They went in together to get orders from the men watching the game.

Lizabeth lingered long enough to help get the pizzas in and out of the oven and to help get the dishes washed. None of the young men were appreciative and even said thank you, though Uncle Ned wandered in with his empty plate for another beer and murmured his thanks.

"Lizabeth and Edgar broke up," Chrissie remarked as he was closing the refrigerator door.

"Yeah?" Uncle Ned turned. "I wondered if it wouldn't sour between you. I'm sorry." He walked back to watch the game. Aunt Chrissie thought her husband would have more of an opinion (though the Super Bowl was playing in the next room, for god's sake).

"I don't know what to say. I've tried hard to support you since Dawn has shackled you and ridden over you so much," remarked her aunt. "But, I think I was seduced by the idea of you and Edgar walking down the aisle into a happily ever after." She slapped a few things into the industrial-sized sink. "I haven't been a friend in this case. I love Tyler and Scott, but I also wanted daughters." More items were placed into the sink. "I apologize. I got caught up on the idea of a wedding, romance, white dresses. Dawn can sell quite a picture. And you know that Ned and I just did the courthouse thing, right? Dawn and Todd's wedding was so excessive that when we married, Ned couldn't abide the idea of having even our closest circle of friends stand up with us. We just stood before Judge Deburg with two friends by our side."

Lizabeth had been picking up used utensils and loading them into the dishwasher but stopped to listen to her aunt's story.

"I hope we are still friends," said her aunt.

"You have always been such a support to me when Mom is such a nutter. Of course, we're still friends," she asserted. "It's easy to get caught up in Mom's drama. I mean, she got Dad—Dad!—to drive over here yesterday, _the day before the Super Bowl_, to discuss flying me to New York City to buy a wedding dress before I had even announced my engagement!"

It was an easy speech to make, though her insides twisted a little. She felt her smile was a little forced. She recalled the awkward dinner the previous Sunday with Chrissie and Ned hinting about an engagement (but never asking). And there was the fact that Uncle Ned had told Ed where to find her.

"Thank you," Chrissie's shoulders sagged with relief. She attacked the dirty pots and pans with a little more gusto.

The kitchen was cleaned, and Lizzie said farewell. She didn't bother to poke her head in to say goodbye to Uncle Ned and Scott or even attempt to recall any of the friends' names who were cheering on the game. Lizabeth was happy to retreat to the silence of her apartment where she curled up with the kitten and a cup of tea.

She considered that she wasn't someone for whom trust came easily. Aunt Chrissie had been very supportive of her over the years, but Dawn's insistence on knowing exacting details meant Lizabeth had boundary issues. Having a supportive adult in her life had been valuable and helpful and constructive. And Chrissie Gardiner had always been someone, that if needed, Lizabeth felt that she could call upon and pour out her heart to. She would always find a sympathetic ear, but this little glitch had made her walk unhappily away from the Gardiners' house (located a stone's throw away from Edgar and LuAnn's house). Lizabeth considered that her aunt's questions and presumptions had _hurt_.

She needed friends of her own. Having an older ear to pour her misery into had been a lifeline during her teen and college years, but now that she was on her own, she needed friends of her own—a support system of _peers_. Friends whose loyalty was to _her_ or at least friends whose loyalty wouldn't be divided between her and her mother—for, after all, Edward Gardiner was related by blood to Dawn Bennet.

* * *

She went to work on Monday and was happy that it was only Doug Morris at the front door. He made one brief reference to the ugliness on Friday by asking her if everything was okay. She assured him that it was. He then logged on to the computer and got lost in his business.

It was a quiet day. Lizabeth hoped for a quiet week after such a chaotic one previously. She had paperwork to catch up with and was content to focus on that. She still found time to peruse the Merton Daily, so what if it was on company time? Lizabeth figured it constituted the equivalent of a coffee break, though she also checked to see if any of those people who filed for fictitious business names had printed their ads. There was also the notice of an engagement: that first Jenkinson quad, Karen, was marrying her fiancé in June. It seemed _they_ wanted a big fancy wedding.

After lunch, she got lost in scanning old map books when someone coughed. She looked over to see a young woman (who was about her age), standing expectantly on the other side of the counter. Lizabeth thought she'd seen her somewhere but couldn't remember the context.

"Is the judge in?" the woman asked.

"Probably, though I don't know if he's available."

"Can you check?" pressed the woman.

"Yes. Can I tell him who's here?" she asked.

"Andrea," was the answer. Lizabeth wasn't sure if she should ask for a last name but thought it must be personal business if the woman only gave her first name and expected the Judge to know her. She knocked on his office door. The police scanner was going in the background, so she knew he wasn't _too_ occupied. He flicked it off before inviting her in.

"How are you?" Troy Metcalfe asked.

"It's a quiet day, for once," she answered.

"No cats today, huh?" he quipped.

"Yes. Um," she felt tongue-tied suddenly. Lizabeth still wasn't sure if she would be punished for her recklessness in tearing open the wall to get at the kitten. There hadn't been any repairs to the wall yet. It might take some time to get approval. It might need funding, which usually took _forever_ in government time. "Um, a woman is asking to see you."

"Yeah?" Judge Metcalfe was surprised.

"Said her name's Andrea."

"Oh," he was both surprised and yet not. It appeared that he knew who _Andrea_ was. "Show her in."

Lizabeth had to walk down the length of the counter to the door to open it. "Come in. Judge Metcalfe will see you."

"Thank you," said the woman and walked through; she seemed to know the way and didn't wait for an escort. By the time Lizabeth had latched the counter door, Andrea was opening the door to Metcalfe's office.

"Hi," Andrea called to Troy and quickly shut the door behind her.

* * *

Lizabeth was determined to expand her friendships after her long considerations on the weekend and decided to run up to the Hilton bar in the hopes of speaking to Mary. However, the lounge lizard queen didn't work on Monday, though she did run into Jane Sweet. The event planner was talking to someone just outside the entrance to the hotel restaurant but greeted her.

"I came to talk to Mary, but she doesn't _work_ Mondays apparently," Lizabeth began.

Jane had the prettiest smile. "She can't be here _every_ day, we'd wear her out. Did you have a reason to speak to her?"

"No, I'm just attempting not to go home and brood," she said.

"Have you seen William recently? Do you want to have a drink?" Jane invited, motioning towards the bar.

Lizabeth thought about the fact that she hadn't gone home yet. "Maybe a half a glass of wine. I haven't fed the cat yet."

Jane laughed, "does she have a name yet?"

A hand went to her cheek. "Kitty. I'm at a loss as to what to name a cat. They don't come when you call them."

"That's true."

"Do you have one?" Lizabeth asked in return.

"No. I like dogs," Jane answered as they took their seats.

"Oh!" she looked at her. It was an unexpected revelation; somehow Jane didn't seem the dog type.

"So, William? Have you kept in touch?" Jane pressed.

"He stayed in town last week. His aunt lives here."

"Yes, I know." Jane nodded her head. "Charles explained about the production. I heard all about the details, and some of the ideas, I gather, were based on family stories from William."

"Oh, _that_ I hadn't realized," Lizabeth frowned. "Have you seen Charles?"

"Not since that Monday," said Jane, who clicked her tongue.

"Do you want to?" Lizabeth followed up one question with another. She hoped that was acceptable.

"Yes. I rather like him. We had a rather wonderful time, though I'm not sure that being involved with an actor would be the smartest thing I've ever done." Jane raised her eyebrows rather dramatically, and Lizabeth filed that disclosure away. She wondered if they had spent the night together.

"Do you think you'll see William again, now that you're free?" They were to talk about both men. This wasn't going to be a one-sided conversation.

"I don't think I'm on the rebound for another relationship," Lizabeth remarked. "I've been pretty burned by Edgar."

"Getting over a relationship is tough, isn't it?" Jane rolled her eyes and nodded at the barman, who may or may not be within range to hear their conversation.

"Yes, and this was my first," she admitted.

"Really? Oh! Wow!" exclaimed the event planner. "It hurts, even if he is a bastard."

Lizabeth found that she still bristled if someone insulted Edgar even though she knew that they were right. But this time, she didn't bristle visibly but nodded in agreement. "But I don't want to make a mistake and decide to suddenly date someone _else_ just because Edgar was such a _bastard_."

"Well…it's difficult to say what attracts you to someone else or what attracts them to you," said Jane sounding very philosophical with her cocktail twirling absentmindedly. "But don't pass up the opportunity to get to know someone just because you fear you're on the rebound. I just broke up with my boyfriend last month. He's a writer for the Merton Daily. We were together for two years. He was always going to write a novel and was skilled too. He just never could finish anything he started."

Lizabeth watched as Jane's face lost the humorous animation from before. Her shoulders and body slumped a little, but her face lost none of its beauty even as private thoughts overtook her. "But we just got to the point where we stalled, so I broke up with him and moved out. You might say that I was on the rebound when I met Charles. But I didn't let that stop me from getting to know him."

"Wow," said Lizabeth. "But you said you're not sure if you'll see Charles again?"

"He lives hundreds of miles away. Who knows? I've got my life and patterns up here. But it's fun to say that I've slept with an actor, don't you think?"

Lizabeth nodded, though her stomach cramped a little. She wasn't sure if Jane was joking or regretting her impulsivity of the evening or what that statement meant. She didn't know Jane well enough (or rather had enough relationship experience) to understand what that disclosure meant.

"Thanks for talking to me," was something Lizabeth _could_ say. "It helps to have somebody my age to share with."

"Anytime," Jane answered.

"I think I'll head for home," she said, leaving a great deal of her wine behind.

* * *

The next day, there was a wedding announcement between Kate Lyn Jenkinson and Daniel Wilcox in the Merton Daily. Lizabeth couldn't help but feel that there _was_ a rivalry between the two Jenkinson sisters, if not between all four of them. She couldn't imagine what it was like to grow up as a family of four daughters. It might be nice to have her mother's attention deflected from her once in a while. Such thoughts got her through the morning in what seemed to be a rush of activity.

She also saw several fictitious statements posted in the online newspaper, one of which was that awful David's; she had intended to discuss those weird mining guys with the Judge and resolved to tackle him right after lunch as the office was busy right up until then. It would be her first priority after she had eaten. But someone wanted to file for a property tax revaluation and was waiting impatiently at the doors when she returned. Lizabeth had to deal with his wheezing, irritated fussing first.

But the man hadn't even left when Troy Metcalfe threw open his door. "Mimi's in labor. I'm off to the hospital!" He shut it again.

She turned with a squeak to rush to his door and opened it without knocking. He was patting a hand over his desk. "Can I help?" she offered.

"I don't know where I put my cell phone!" the Judge cried.

"Is it in your pocket?" Lizabeth asked, knowing where he normally stowed it.

He reached up to pat his breast pocket, sighed in relief, and bit his lip.

"Do you need any help?" she repeated.

"No. I'm leaving you in charge. You can call on anyone in the city offices if you need facility or administrative help…that kind of thing. Any county issues, call on Bernie in the Rivertown office."

"Okay. Good luck and congratulations!" she cried, feeling bubbly and elated. She hoped the Judge felt the same.

"Thanks, Lizabeth," he said. "I may take a couple of days off."

"I should hope so."

"Bye," and he was gone.

She thought in all that whirlwind of his getting out the door that he was just as nervous as he was excited. He was a forty-nine-year-old man about to become a father for the first time. There were a lot of men who became grandfathers at that age, not fathers. But there was a concern, she knew, about Mimi becoming a mother at forty-whatever her age was. But they had the best doctors who would ensure the best outcome.

It seemed desolate in the office the rest of the day, even though she rarely saw Judge Metcalfe, but knowing he wasn't there made Lizabeth feel a little depressed. Once again, she didn't go straight home after work but headed for the bar.

Mary was there, and they had a cozy chat discussing exactly how long Mimi might be in labor and how long until the news would come. Lizabeth realized she was very uninformed about birthing babies. She thought it was only a matter of hours. Mary said it could be a handful or half a day; it could be twelve; it could be twenty-four. It all depended.

"Twenty-four!" Lizabeth cried. "I don't think I will ever have children!" She wondered why her mother had never used labor as a guilt-trip. She suspected that her mother's labor must have been short.

It was just as she was at the very end of another romance novel, in the epilogue where the hero and heroine joyfully cooed over their infant son that she received a text from Troy Metcalfe.

_Mimi doing well. My heart joyful!_

Next came a picture. She supposed a nurse had taken it, but the Judge was smiling in a manner she had never seen as he held the tiniest baby wrapped in a striped blanket. The baby wore a cap and was asleep.

_Anthony Troy Metcalfe_

There were height and weight details listed.

_Congratulations to you and Mimi_, she texted back before turning out the light.

* * *

The Judge ended up taking five weeks off. It kept Lizabeth busier than she supposed. He never provided any help, but perhaps it was his presence that kept her going, somehow. She found her days full of work and looked forward to lunch more than she had in the past.

Her lunches with Charlene were a welcome break. While they had talked about having dinners too, it seemed that this adjunct professor boyfriend was suddenly keeping Charlene quite occupied. Not that Lizabeth could blame her friend. They still found time to go shopping one Saturday afternoon. Just window shopping for clothes, to be girls, to try on shoes without any intention of buying them and to talk. It let Charlene gush about Lyle and allowed Lizabeth to let off steam about holding down the fort with the Judge gone.

She spent more time at the bar than she had in the past. Part of her worried that she might cross paths with Edgar, given what Mary had said about him and other women. Lizabeth asked the lounge lizard if she had seen Ed; Mary admitted that she hadn't.

"There's a group of businessmen who used to meet here regularly from a company, 'Spectre,'" Mary explained. "One of them got a little drunk, and came on a little too much to Jane one night; Joe had to tell him to knock it off, and he wouldn't. We had to get security to show him the door. Anyway, Edgar seems to be spending a lot of time with _those_ guys. Whatever bar they've moved to, that's where he is."

Lizabeth was pleased that she didn't have to face Ed. She was enjoying having friends. Mary was philosophical and discussed top-lofty topics, like politics, and was insightful about human relations and those base motivations for people's behavior. Jane was often around as well. Whenever she and Jane talked about Charles, the subject of William always came up which kept him on her mind. When Charles came up to see Jane one weekend, it made Jane glow with happiness. Lizabeth thought that she would like to feel that way about someone or have someone make her feel so happy. Edgar certainly hadn't had that effect on her.

She was also relieved from attendance at the Gardiners house—a nice relief—as everyone was sick the week after the Super Bowl and then the next weekend, Uncle Ned and Aunt Chrissie were gone as they took Scott on college tours since he had a week off of school.

Lizabeth dutifully answered the phone if her mother called. _Those_ calls were never short, but besides one long diatribe about the cat, Dawn mostly used the time she had her daughter cornered on the phone discussing how ungrateful Lizabeth was, how she didn't understand her mother who explained about the sacrifices she had made over the years. Dawn reiterated that Lizabeth really ought to do everything she said. Her mother never went on to explain any obvious desires, like insisting she marry Edgar, get rid of the cat, or move back home. She just insisted that she knew best _all the time_.

After hanging up one day, Lizabeth had the insight that her mother was someone who needed to complain and to voice those complaints frequently, though she didn't necessarily desire a solution.

The kitten grew quickly, and having a little friend at home made home _better_. Lizabeth thought that she ought to find something else to do with her life, as though she needed a hobby like knitting, but all-in-all, she was enjoying the direction of her life and feeling more focused, and grown-up.

* * *

A/N: we're sort of post-Netherfield ball and not quite to Hunsford yet. (And as I've PM'd a few of you), This story is like I had all the canon plots or little scenes on cards but I shuffled them up and then randomly laid them out. I've woven most of them in (look for Mr. Collins' proposal), they just don't happen in the same order or necessarily have the same strength or influence in the story. Sorry, no D&E direct interactions until their little 'Hunsford' meeting.

Hope everyone is doing well sheltering at home. It gets hard when you can't go visit a friend to relieve the stress of so much family togetherness.

Dear Adsom: the situation in Spain wrenches at my heart. I hope you are well and safe as your country does what it can with this pandemic.


	13. Chapter 13

It was Lizabeth and Charlene's weekly luncheon, but when the two friends met in front of the Hill Café, the line up to the counter ran out the doors. As it was drizzling (not exactly coming down hard enough that it warranted umbrellas, but annoying), they quickly made their way around the corner to a Mexican grill. There were fewer people inside, but they had to wait longer for their food. It didn't cater to those working people who had to eat and be back to work in an hour. Most of the other people inside wore suits and seemed to have more time to linger over their meal.

"I can't believe it's March already!" Charlene exclaimed once the pair had ordered. "It's been three weeks since I met Lyle too."

"It seems so much has changed lately. Me and Ed, the Judge's baby, you and Lyle," Lizabeth agreed. Charlene stared for a moment as if not sure how to respond. Lizabeth knew she had been prickly about her breakup with Edgar. "Change in a good way," Lizabeth assured her friend.

Charlene's shoulders relaxed. "I've been pretty happy seeing Lyle this past couple of weeks. Maybe it's been annoying to talk about him so much? Sometimes, when you're blissfully happy, you don't realize you're, like, railroading over others." Her eyes looked straight into Lizabeth's as she waited for a response.

Lizabeth thought about the past few weeks. It had been a new stage for her when her life before had been more ordered (by her mother). Her time now was different and unpredictable and without precedence. Hearing Charlene gush at every Thursday luncheon or on the other days they met had made the loss of her boyfriend harder in a way—but she still didn't regret losing Ed or begrudge Charlene her happiness.

It had been three weeks since Lizabeth saw her aunt and uncle, though she was due there the coming weekend. Her mother still called, but she had finally realized that Dawn Bennet just needed to complain. When Lizabeth let her complain without comment and then hung up, life was simpler. And Jane and Mary were becoming good friends. She also realized that friendship was a two-way street. Initially, she had sought them out for advice without listening to _their_ problems or opinions.

But both women now shared more about themselves. Jane especially, as she and her actor were intensely interested in each other. And Charles drove up from Los Angeles to visit. Jane Sweet was both worried—since their lives were firmly established in two different cities—but infatuated with her handsome, actor boyfriend. Mary Abel was more reticent but indicated she didn't want to spend her entire life being a singer in a hotel bar; she had aspirations that included songwriting and stage performance.

"No." It was concise and honest. "I enjoy your friendship. I like hearing from you, and so I like hearing about you and Lyle." Lizabeth smiled, which the waiter, who was putting drinks down on the table, seemed to think was directed at him. He winked at her; she ignored him.

"Would you want to meet him? Have dinner with us this weekend! I know you and I have taken to shopping on Saturday mornings, and I don't want to stop _that_. But come out to dinner with us. Neither of us bites, and we'll have fun," her friend assured.

"Okay," Lizabeth agreed. She didn't agree wholeheartedly but didn't have objections either. And after all, she was working on improving her friendships, and that included being supportive of their love relationships, right?

"_Not sure what the council is thinking besides tax revenue, but that's going to be a long time coming_," said a man who had a file folder open in front of him. He was at the next table over with another man in a suit, frowning back at him. They both were indulging in beers at lunch, though that was taboo in most businesses.

"But that software firm pulled together quite a presentation in short-order. Somehow, after approving the Deburg acquisition in January, the city is going to go forward with more development. I'm not sure if someone on the council isn't on the take, or just doesn't understand how far in the future it will be before the city sees any return," murmured the first suit. The two men were the sort whose voices carried, and who didn't care that they did. They were used to being listened to and neither minded that they could be overheard (or cared if their conversation was annoying).

Lizabeth stared at Charlene and then rolled her eyes. They had often discussed how difficult it was to have lunchtime conversations when everyone else was talking that sometimes you almost had to shout. The waiter came back just then, far faster than they expected, with their orders. He made a big production of serving them, catching Lizabeth's eyes again. She frowned at him so he wouldn't get any ideas.

Charlene pressed about dinner with her and Lyle, and the two friends made plans for Saturday night as they ate, talking in between the conversation by the men next to them. The waiter brought their bill with enough time that they wouldn't be late. He wrote his phone number on the bill, but Lizabeth ignored it.

* * *

When she met him, Lyle Collins wasn't what Lizabeth was expecting. Her friend was on the short side, probably five foot three, but Lyle was at least six feet tall, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, and with quite a gut. He was prematurely thin on top and had chosen to shave his head every few days and went with the bald look. But it wasn't his physical looks alone which surprised her. He was talkative and out-going. Lizabeth knew he was a teacher, yet he seemed the sort who treated everyone as though they were a small child of six rather than an adult. She wondered what taking a class with him would be like.

Charlene beamed when she introduced him. Lizabeth expressed pleasure at meeting him, then the three of them walked into the restaurant (another Mexican place, but fancier than their luncheon eatery from the previous day). He wasn't handsome or ugly, Lizabeth decided, just ordinary-looking. After the evening was over, however, she wondered what Charlene saw in Lyle Collins. But love is a fickle thing.

He talked and talked and talked. Lyle was _not_ a listener. Maybe it was because of his profession. He was used to being in front of a classroom and lecturing. But he had an opinion about _everything_. Lizabeth could barely bring up a subject before she was interrupted, and Lyle would wax on with determination. It meant she and Charlene barely got a chance to speak. While she bristled inside, Lizabeth allowed her friend to make her own choices, just as Charlene and Jane and Mary had let Lizabeth make hers. That evening, she merely carried on with her small portion of the conversation. Maybe he was just a nervous person, and talking was his way of compensating? Lizabeth didn't know.

The couple meant to take in a movie as well, but Lizabeth said she had things to do (like finish another book), so she declined the invitation and went home to her bed, her cat, and her next romance novel.

* * *

Dinner with her aunt and uncle after a month apart also wasn't as intense an experience as she feared. For once, the meal wasn't about Lizabeth as it was about Scott. Aunt Chrissie and Uncle Ned were waiting with more apprehension about college admissions than their son. Most of the conversation centered on Scott's college choices, how they ranked, how likely it was that he would get into any of them, and a final rant from Chrissie about how she would miss her baby boy.

On Monday, there was a young couple who wanted to have a civil ceremony performed. Lizabeth had to explain that Judge Metcalfe was still out on leave. "He'll be out for another week. Judge Haggerston in Rivertown is on-call. You can contact him or come back next week."

The young woman, Sally Watson, was indignant. "But that's twenty-five miles away! I don't see why I should have to drive all that way to get married! This is a public _service_. My _right_ as a tax-paying _citizen_ to be married _when_ and _where_ I choose!"

Her fiancé, Ben Rhys-Jones, agreed with her. The couple argued with Lizabeth for several minutes, but she had nothing else to tell them. They had no desire to drive to Rivertown, so they indicated that they would be back in a week to schedule their ceremony. Lizabeth passed over the recording office's general business card and suggested that they call first to make sure that the Judge was indeed back in the office.

"Some people," Doug Morris remarked, catching Lizabeth's eyes and then rolling his dramatically when she looked at him.

"I know!" she replied with mock indignance. Lizabeth was getting used to dealing with the diversity of emotions people displayed. She thought she preferred the kids signing up to vote for the first time most of all. Even dealing with those people coming in to file for death certificates didn't wear her down as much as the arrogance of people who claimed entitlement to services because they were tax-payers. She said as much to Doug.

"People are assholes," he asserted. "They feel like they can push other people around for the flimsiest of reasons. They feel messed up inside, so they take it out on somebody else by getting all high-handed and superior. It's crap." Doug swiveled in the chair to look more fully at Lizabeth. "Don't ever sell yourself short. You do a great job here. We both know Troy doesn't help at all. I know what it's like to do a job without instruction."

She wondered if Doug was talking about his job or being a parent? She knew he was getting a divorce, but hadn't figured out what the custody situation was like. Maybe he was a single dad now? "Did I ever say thank you for stepping up to help me that one morning?" She was changing the subject, yes, but Lizabeth realized that Doug was a friend too. "When Ed was such an asshole, and you stood up for me? Anyways, I just want to say thank you."

"Any time. I hope that if my daughters were ever in such a situation that they wouldn't have to handle it on their own." He nodded sharply at her. She had imagined his kids as little, but maybe they were older, tweens, or teenagers? They didn't share much, but possibly Doug could be a friend, _a man who was a friend_. Sort of like William had been a friend that day. Doug must have made the same mental leap as his next comment was, "have you heard anything else from that guy who was here that day too? I got the impression that you and he were friends despite his being an asshole day one."

"Yes and no," Lizabeth answered, then went on to explain that she and William had gotten beyond his rudeness that first day.

"So…" Doug drawled out the word. "Have you heard from him since that last day he was here?"

"No, not since that Friday. He took me to lunch, but then went back to Los Angeles, as far as I know. That was, almost a month ago? He hasn't called or texted. Hasn't visited here, though I know that actor guy has been up here a few times."

"Yeah?" Doug seemed a hopeless gossip. "Why? To see someone?"

"Yes. The event planner at the hotel," Lizabeth explained.

"_Interesting_. Long-distance relationships never work, though," he shook his head slightly. She wondered if he had personal experience.

"They seem to be just taking it a day at a time, right now," said Lizabeth, who felt like her feathers were a little ruffled. Maybe because of Charles Lee's proximity to William Darcy.

"Won't last," he shook his head. "But…you and…William? Did you think to see him again?"

_Very forward of him,_ she thought. Lizabeth also thought her chest and stomach burned a little at the question. "He said he might see me when he came back in six months to film his show." She tried for indifference but thought she failed as Doug grinned.

"Not exactly what I was asking, but you answered my question," he quipped and swung around to go back to work.

* * *

When Lizabeth next spoke to Jane Sweet, they talked about her relationship with Charles Lee and the troubles of dating someone who lived a couple hundred miles away.

"We're still in that new, discovery stage where every day with each other is magic," Jane remarked with a dreamy smile to match. "Every Saturday he comes is almost perfect. We spend time getting to know each other in those little ways, you know, but also the ways that just make your pulse race!" She let out a little tinkly laugh.

Lizabeth considered Jane's comments almost as if they were instructions for how to date. You got to know each other in simple ways, but also ways which made you feel good. There hadn't been anything like that with Edgar.

"But I only see him one and a half days a week, if I'm lucky, and then we're hundreds of miles apart after that." Jane grunted, a very unladylike sound.

"Is it worth it?" Lizabeth asked.

"Yes," Jane said automatically. "Oh, yes." Then something changed in her eyes, and her lips thinned, or was it a smile? Lizabeth didn't know. "But I worry. I am _not_ moving to Los Angeles. I have never, _ever_, envisioned living in all that craziness and unreality and traffic and cramped apartments. So I would _never_ consider moving there." There was a short silence while Lizabeth looked at Jane, who seemed to be thinking over several scenarios, including her time with Charles ending.

"And he couldn't live here and commute, could he?" Lizabeth asked gently.

"No," she answered. "So we're just enjoying each other's company right now. I don't want to speculate too much on the ultimate fate of our time together." Jane was quiet again. "But I wonder if I don't hold back, because I know it can't last? Do you understand?"

"I think I do," Lizabeth answered. All of this was new territory for her. She felt new, raw, _green_ as far as relationships worked. If she watched TV or read romance novels, they gave skewed visions of simplistic relationships. Maybe she needed to read tragedies for a while and get a different view of the world. Lizabeth knew she was still learning. "But Jane, is it worth it to have time with Charles _now_?" she asked.

Lizabeth wasn't suggesting a course of action; she was asking a question. Jane seemed to think her friend was advising her as her face visibly brightened. "Yes! Charles is worth my time right now!"

* * *

She mentioned her discussion with Jane to Doug the next day. Lizabeth hoped she wasn't betraying confidences, but was exploring the complexities of relationships in her mind. There were so many different types, from casual all the way to marriage and even the relationship between parent and child, and she said so to Doug Morris as they waited for the computer terminal to boot.

"Every relationship is different and complex and maddening, and yet at one point in time, we all go into them thinking that they are worth the effort on our part," he began. Doug had his paper coffee cup and a bag with a breakfast item like he usually did. "Obviously, you dated that Ed guy because you thought it would be worth your effort. You get something from it?" He raised both eyebrows.

Lizabeth had dated Ed because he had asked her out; she had continued to date him because he wanted to keep seeing her. In retrospect, she wasn't sure what she got out of those weekly dates.

"I was a fool," she began. "I had so little experience. But what I got out of dating Edgar was the experience of knowing what _I don't like_ from dating and figuring out a little more of what _I do want_ from a relationship. Is that okay?" She thought she sounded like a little child asking for a parent's approval.

"We all learn from our relationships. Sometimes it's good, sometimes bad." He set his lips together tightly. "It's tough when it doesn't work out." He paused to stare at her. Lizabeth had no real idea of how old he was. She had always had this idea that he was her contemporary, but Douglas could be twenty-five, or he could be forty. He was one of those men who aged well. "My wife, soon to be ex-wife, and I couldn't make things work."

Again there was a pause. Lizabeth wondered if he was considering sharing the issues with his marriage. He continued. "But we are forever connected because of our kids, my girls," he smiled then, a genuine one which made Lizabeth smile back.

"How old are they?" she dared to ask.

"Eleven and nine. We don't want our issues screwing them up any more than they have to, so we're sharing custody and keeping the house. The girls stay at the house. My wife and I are the ones who move in and out a week at a time to care for them. That way, they stay at the same school, keep the same friends, and don't need to pack up and move around because their parents can't stay together."

Lizabeth stared at Doug. It was the most he had ever shared with her, and she wanted to thank him but thought that might sound lame. "Wow, that is great that you're doing the best for them, despite the divorce. I've never heard of such an arrangement; it shows how much you care—how much you love them."

"They're everything to me," he said simply. "But when you care for someone, you do things like live in one place one week and then another the next. I can't say the tiny apartment I live in on the off weeks is at all comfortable. But it's what you do."

"I wonder if Jane and Charles _really_ fell in love, could they come to some arrangement where they might live one week up here, and one week down in Los Angeles to make it work?" Lizabeth asked suddenly.

"Don't know," Doug answered, sipping his coffee. "Love makes you do wild things." He sipped again. "Stupid things too."

* * *

"Lyle and I are thinking of going to Los Angeles for a short trip," said Charlene to her the next day at their regular luncheon. "Over a weekend and I wondered if you wanted to come too?"

"Like Disneyland?" Lizabeth asked. She had never been. Dawn didn't like crowds; she couldn't be in control in such a place.

"Well…" hemmed Charlene. "Lyle isn't big on amusement parks. He wants to see museums and other cultural sites like botanical gardens. But there's a three-day weekend, Easter weekend, and we thought we would get away." Her friend looked at her as she spooned soup into her mouth. Charlene seemed a little evasive as her eyes darted down at her bowl to dig the last couple of spoonfuls out. "But we are getting _two_ rooms since we're not _there_ yet, so there would be room for you." Her friend finally looked up. "You'd be staying with me."

"I've never been," Lizabeth said automatically. "And I'd like to go. I think I have that Friday off, is that when you're planning to leave?"

"Yes," Charlene nodded. "We'd leave Friday and have half a day Friday, all day Saturday and come back Sunday."

Lizabeth thought about seeing Los Angeles for once. A big city. Not that she didn't know San Francisco, but that was bound by its location and small, and Los Angeles, was _LA!_ It had figured a lot in her mind and imagination lately since meeting William Darcy and his actor friends.

"I want to go," she reiterated. Of course, her mother would be expecting her to come home for Easter dinner. Perhaps there were plans in the making and her parents would be coming to Merton to the Gardiners for Easter; she didn't know. But no one had said anything to her, though Dawn always assumed that what she _thought_ was _law_. It would take some careful planning as to how she told her family about her plans.

"Great!" Charlene's face brightened. Something else showed there too, relief maybe? Lizabeth wasn't sure, but she thought that Charlene didn't want to go on a vacation with her boyfriend without a friend in tow, especially if they were staying in separate hotel rooms. The two friends spent the rest of their lunch talking over the details of the trip and what sights they might see.

* * *

Lizabeth was distracted that afternoon. Her mind wandered, thinking first of going to Los Angeles and then about the people she knew who lived there. She hadn't allowed herself to think much about William Darcy since that final luncheon before he went away. They had had quite an exciting week together. It had been an intense way to meet a person. But he had gone away and not contacted her, and as she had explained to Doug, William said he wouldn't be back for six months. But Jane had indicated that if there was some spark, even if you were on the rebound, you ought to pay attention to the spark—or were those feelings?

Sometimes, Lizabeth thought she wasn't good at recognizing her feelings. It was as if her mother sucked them all out, leaving her bereft of any. It was as if Dawn needed to be the one always showing how she felt, and no one else in the family was allowed the luxury of happiness or despair or anger or outrage.

But there had been a spark of something with William, though Lizabeth had only allowed herself small dreams. Hopes hadn't been necessary before as her mother and father were going to provide everything for her. But now Lizabeth found herself speculating wildly on thoughts of romance. She knew all those stories she read were unrealistic, yet fundamentally they were about _love_. And Lizabeth wanted love, _romantic_ love. She wanted to love a man and be loved in return.

She didn't need those traditional trappings of a diamond engagement ring, a wedding, a house, and babies. Lizabeth hadn't loved Edgar; she'd always known that. But until now, she hadn't realized that she was seeking romance and, in hindsight, what she and Edgar had was almost cold. All of her friends had been right to bash him. But what would it be like to date William Darcy? He lived so far away. (Jane bemoaned that she only saw Charles once a week.) William's work was exciting and interesting and of a type of work that she could more easily understand than Ed's (who often insisted that his business was too complicated for her female brain.)

Lizabeth didn't know much about William, and yet they had spent a lot of time together during that week. There was an ease in his company that last day, in particular. He had driven her to work after having taken her home because he felt responsible for her. Then he had supported her when Ed had come to say his piece and ended up attacking her.

She wished he would call. Maybe he didn't know her number? But he knew where she worked and could call her at the office. On the reverse side, she knew he owned his own company. She could easily do a search and find _his_ number and call him. But Lizabeth was new to this game and wasn't confident that she was strong enough to contact him.

Somewhere in the middle of all of these musings, she realized that she was _interested_ in more than just a friendship with William Darcy. It wasn't like Doug, who was sort of a work colleague (he was in the record's office every morning and someone to talk to.) Doug had proven his worth too when he had stood by her side that morning when she had had it out with Edgar.

But she was _romantically_ interested in William Darcy.

* * *

Friday morning, it was unusually busy. Lizabeth answered many phone calls, helped a somber-faced man fill out a form to reassess his property taxes, and helped an older couple file for a tax postponement because they were seniors. She felt she had earned her lunch when two familiar faces walked in, Lydia Philips came in with George Wickham. Lizabeth was surprised to see them together since she knew them from different situations. Lizabeth had helped Lydia's mother with a death certificate, and George had been the one kind face at that country club dinner with Edgar months ago.

The couple walked up to the marriage and death certificate station. Lizabeth didn't think that they were there for another death certificate.

"We want to get married," George announced. He looked at Lizabeth, who was still at her desk and hadn't risen to greet them like she usually did. She had been lost in thought, with thoughts of Los Angeles, and then been surprised to see this incongruous pair that she hadn't immediately put on her best customer service display.

"Oh!" She stood to hide her shock, reaching for her prepared clipboard. They seemed _unalike_. Lizabeth knew George had money, or she _thought_ he did, since he was the one who had the country club membership. And Lydia was as poor as that proverbial church mouse. But if you loved someone, what were such differences?

She moved up to the counter. This situation didn't warrant sitting on the chairs or boxes of tissues. It was almost noon, however. Lizabeth glanced at the clock, calculated the time it would take to process a marriage license application, and figured she would be late to lunch.

"I need you to complete this form. I will need to see identification for both of you, and there's a fee." She tried for brisk and hoped it would rub off and that they would get through the process in record time.

George and Lydia didn't look at the form on the clipboard, but dutifully took out their wallets and passed over their driver's licenses to Lizabeth who photocopied them. She heard Lydia giggling as they stood close to each other and scribbled on the form. Lizabeth walked back to them slowly with their identification palmed; she always made sure she gave IDs back promptly.

Lydia giggled again as she signed the form. George Wickham signed it then pushed the clipboard towards Lizabeth. She first handed their IDs back before taking the form. _I just might make it_; she thought as she glanced at the paperwork.

There were a few omissions. Lizabeth had to clarify _street_ or _road_ for Lydia's address and ask for the last digit of George's zip code. Then she noticed that George had indicated he was married before.

"I need the date of your divorce decree," she said.

"It was eight years ago. I don't recall the exact date," he said, looking vaguely over Lizabeth's shoulder before glancing at his fiancée. Lydia Philips looked a little troubled. Perhaps she was insecure and didn't like the fact that he had been married before. Lizabeth glanced at the document. He was about twenty-seven, given quick math in her head. He had married young if he had been divorced for eight years.

"I can't issue a license without a divorce date," Lizabeth insisted.

"Look. Marrying Lydia will help out her and her mom. They've been hurting since Ross died. Can't you give us a bye this one time? I'll hunt Andrea down and have her give me the date. But sometimes it's hard to find your ex-wife. She moves around, though I think I know how to get a hold of her," he argued. He pleaded with his eyes more than anything else. Lizabeth wondered about the reasons for this marriage when he stated that he was doing it to help out the family. Was it because _he_ had money and _they_ didn't?

"I'm sorry; I can't," Lizabeth insisted. "We have to record the exact date of the divorce decree. But you said you thought you could get a hold of your ex? Maybe you can come back on Monday?" George didn't respond to this. Lizabeth looked at Lydia, who looked panicked more than anything. She didn't understand why they were in such a hurry to get married and why a couple of days made such a difference. "If you wanted a civil ceremony, you'd have to schedule that, and the judge is out," she added.

"You mean we couldn't get married today anyways?" Lydia looked at her.

"No." Lizabeth shook her head. "The Judge is on leave, but I expect him back on Monday."

"Well then," said George, who sounded angry. "I guess we'll just take this piece of paper," he growled, sounding as though he added a swear word under his breath.

Lizabeth carefully pushed down on the hinge of the clipboard so he didn't tear the copies. Different ones needed to be filed in various places.

"Come on, Lydia," George barked. He put a hand around the young woman's arm.

"You might want this," Lizabeth called them back and gave them the recording office phone number. "I haven't heard that the Judge is returning _for sure_ on Monday, so call me first thing."

"Okay," said George. Lydia nodded, and they left.

That other couple who had wanted a civil ceremony but hadn't wanted to travel to see Judge Haggerston had called that morning to ask and Lizabeth had to tell Miss Watson that she didn't know if Troy Metcalfe was returning on Monday. She thought this situation warranted her confirming with the Judge whether or not he would be back.

Lizabeth thought again about George and Lydia and couldn't understand what their situation _was_ that they were in such a hurry to get married. If Lydia and Lori Philips needed money, why couldn't George _give_ them money without him marrying her? It seemed like a weird situation for George to marry Lydia to support them.

The couple had taken the paperwork with them, but she thought about the fact that he had been married and divorced by the time he was nineteen. The name of his ex-wife was Andrea Younge. Then Lizabeth remembered that woman who had come to see the Judge one day—who was also an Andrea. Lizabeth didn't know _her_ last name. The Judge's name was Metcalfe; they obviously weren't related, but she wondered if _that_ Andrea was George's Andrea. She couldn't explain why she believed that. Andrea was a common enough name.

But here were two Andreas, and it was difficult not to want to connect them somehow. Now, more than she had the day the woman had shown up, Lizabeth wanted to know who she was and what was her business was with the Judge. Because nobody came to see the Judge unless they wanted to be married or they were someone in government who came by to talk politics; it was a puzzle, though one of her own making.

Lizabeth called Troy Metcalfe on his cell phone (which he didn't answer) and left a message. She also texted him. He replied about twenty minutes later to say, _'yes, I will be back in the office on Monday._'

She spent the weekend thinking about the trip to LA and skipping Easter dinner for the first time. Such a venture was a little overwhelming to consider and had to be taken in small parts. Lizabeth thought about it at breakfast, panicked, then thought no more of it while she played with the kitten, but then pondered it again when she went for a short walk. Slowly, she built up enough courage to know that she could face down her mother whenever the subject came up.

She knew she would need to broach the topic carefully, but wouldn't be the one to bring it up—yet. Unless the Gardiners mentioned it on Sunday (they didn't), she wasn't ready to call her mother about her plans for a trip to Los Angeles.

* * *

A/N: setting up to begin posting the Hunsford arc (LA) on Friday. But the Hunsford proposal doesn't happen in LA. Like I said the other day, canon scenes, but nothing happens in the usual order.


	14. Chapter 14

The recording office phone began ringing five minutes after Lizabeth unlocked the doors on Monday. Both couples wishing to get married called and asked for Judge Metcalfe before he even appeared, and she had to explain that he wasn't in yet and to call back later. But it seemed a trend was set, as other callers telephoned seeking information about real estate, assessor maps, voting, and obtaining documents.

Judge Metcalfe was tardy as well, and Lizabeth happened to be on the phone with a scatter-brained woman who repeated questions about obtaining property documents. She could feel her customer service front crumbling under the woman's onslaught of questions.

"Ma'am, if you come in, I think I can best help you in-person," Lizabeth tried to get the woman to understand, or just hang up as she was anxious to talk to the Judge. More confused squawking came from the phone, but after five more minutes of calm insistence, Lizabeth succeeded in getting the woman to hang up (even though her patience was gone).

The phone rang again almost immediately.

"Hello, John Muir County Recording Office," Lizabeth said as she answered. Her eyes were on Judge Metcalfe's closed office door.

"Baby!" The voice made her cringe and close her eyes.

"Mom! I'm at work," she cried. Lizabeth looked over at the computer terminal to see if Doug was listening, but he seemed intent on whatever task was in front of him.

"I know!" sang her mother. "I can be assured of getting a hold of you then."

"Mom, I am _supposed to be working_. I don't know how many times I've explained this. I don't have time for personal calls." Lizabeth expressed her exasperation over this repeat offense, though she knew from experience that wouldn't do any good.

"Now, _Easter_. Chrissie and I had a long chat this weekend and it came to us! She will host. She even thought to have some _friends_ over, even _more_ than just a family party. Ham, of course. I thought maybe we ought to have it catered, but Chrissie is such a good cook. But a nice, intimate party with _local friends_. Sounds nice, doesn't it? And we'll get to see you for once as it has been ages. You don't love me anymore, do you?" Dawn finally took in a breath.

Lizabeth had spent most of the weekend preparing to call her mother. Being blindsided at work put her off her stride as far as telling her mother she wouldn't be seeing her at Easter. She mimicked her mother by taking in a lungful of air and missed her first opportunity to say no.

Dawn went into further details about the Easter preparations at the Gardiner's house. Lizabeth found her mind wandering as it often did when her mother spoke. But then she wondered _exactly_ who else might be invited to this dinner? Her gut twisted as she conjectured if the Stones, Ed, LuAnn, _and_ Edgar had been invited. Was this a plot between her mother and her aunt to get her back together with her ex? Lizabeth thought that she had explained to Aunt Chrissie about how awful the breakup had been, but maybe her mother had bullied Chrissie into hosting Easter dinner as Dawn wasn't ready to let that 'good man' Edgar Stone, the third, go.

When Dawn finally drew breath again, Lizabeth spoke up for herself. "Mom, Easter at Aunt Chrissie's sounds like a wonderful idea. I am sure _you_ will enjoy it. But I have plans with friends. I'm going to take a short trip that weekend since it's a three-day weekend." She knew enough not to say where, and also needed to get her mother off of the phone.

"What!"

"Mom, I can't talk. I'm at work. There's somebody here," she looked at Doug, who was still focused on the computer.

"Lizabeth Todd Bennet, don't you hang up on me," shouted her mother.

"I am not hanging up on you, Mom. I am politely saying I need to go because I am _at_ _work_ and have things to do. I really do need to go. Good-bye." She placed the phone down. There wasn't any shouting coming through the receiver as she did; apparently, she had stunned her mother into silence. _Momentary silence_ as Lizabeth was sure she would be subject to a tirade once she was home that evening.

But she could finally talk to the Judge. She knocked on his door, and he asked her in.

"Welcome back. How does it feel?" Lizabeth asked.

"Different," Troy Metcalfe admitted.

"How so?

"My life has changed," he mused.

She thought he looked younger somehow, even if he looked tired. "So, it's all good?"

"Let me show you pictures." He pulled out his phone, flipped to a ready-made album, and began shuffling through photos of his son. Some of them were so similar that it was difficult to tell the difference from one photo to the next, but it was evident that he was a proud father. Lizabeth was tickled to be part of his happiness.

"Anthony, huh?" she finally remarked when they finished. "Will he ever be a Tony?"

"I don't think so. Mimi was keen on the name. While I did have an Uncle Tony which made it even more appropriate, Mimi likes A names."

"Oh!" Lizabeth didn't know what to think of that remark but didn't have a comment. "I should get back to work. The phone has been ringing off the hook this morning. I haven't even done my regular Monday morning checklist. But welcome back."

"Thanks, Lizabeth," he remarked, a little gruff as though eager to have his office to himself.

"Oh!" she turned back as she stood in the open doorway. "I have two couples looking for civil ceremonies, just so you know."

"Couldn't Haggerston handle them?"

"One didn't want to travel. The other couple came in, just last Friday, and I had to turn them away because their paperwork was incomplete."

"Okay. Since I haven't been here, my schedule is pretty open. Though once I dive into my email inbox, I imagine I will be busy," he answered.

"Okay," she replied and closed the door behind her.

Samantha Watson called, and Lizabeth scheduled their civil ceremony for the next day. She wondered if George or Lydia would call soon but was surprised when only George Wickham came in after lunch. Lizabeth spoke first, "you both need to be here to sign the paperwork."

"Look, I haven't been able to find Andrea yet about the divorce. You can't…" he gave her a slightly comical but also very charming grin as he pleaded with her to look beyond requiring the date of a divorce, just this once.

"I can't," she said. "I don't make the rules. It would cost me my job."

"Is Metcalfe back?" he asked then.

"Yes, but I don't see the point of scheduling your ceremony if you can't fill out the paperwork," she argued.

"Well, I know the Judge. I wonder if I could speak to him?" George asked.

"Oh!" Lizabeth stood with her bottom lip poked out for a minute before she bit it. "I'll see if he's back from lunch." She knocked on the Judge's door, and when told to enter, she shut it behind her before speaking. "There's a man, George Wickham, who is asking to see you. Maybe I should explain that he's come to fill out an application for a marriage license, but he doesn't know the date of his divorce, and he's been trying to get me to give him a license without it. I don't know if this is related to why he wants to talk to you? But I am giving you a heads up."

The Judge didn't say anything, but his usual friendliness cooled a little. That was the only way she could explain the slight tension that grew in the room. "I know George; he's a local businessman. The Wickham family has been in the area for many years. Ask him to come back."

"Okay," she answered in a sweeter voice than normal. Lizabeth walked out and asked George to step in, not knowing if her assumption was correct, and he was there to plead with Troy to give the couple a marriage license without a divorce date on it or not? George Wickham was of the country club set, as was Troy Metcalfe. Perhaps they just were old friends, though they were a generation apart. She didn't understand, but she wanted to _know_.

Lizabeth didn't dare go out after work. Knowing her mother would call, she dutifully went home to suffer the wrath of Dawn. It was an hour-long tirade, and it wasn't the first time that she wished for a speakerphone so she wouldn't have her ear burning at the end, but at least she could tuck the phone against her shoulder.

Her mother seemed to have a sixth sense and called within minutes of her unlocking the front door. Lizabeth hung up her coat and fed the cat while her mother ranted. Dawn blathered on about her ungrateful child and the plans she had made, which were now ruined. She dwelled a lot on the ungrateful child theme, and Lizabeth spent time thinking, _I am twenty-five-years old; I am not a child; I am a woman now_. But to say so would have further incensed her mother, so she held her tongue.

There were at least fifteen minutes when her mother focused on the topic of the intricate plans that she and Aunt Chrissie had made, which were all for naught. This belied what Dawn had said this morning that it was a thrown-together, spur-of-the-moment party. The whole scenario had grown in proportions given Dawn's wrath about Lizabeth's disobedience.

Finally, it came to the question and answer time. Who was she going with? Lizabeth explained about her friend, Charlene. Why have I not heard about this Charlene? _I have mentioned her several times_. She thought to herself but didn't say that aloud.

You will need to introduce me before you go! Dawn insisted several times. Lizabeth said she wouldn't do that. Another tirade about her being ungrateful ensued, as no child surely went on vacation without introducing her friend to her mother! (Lizabeth held her tongue about the fact that Charlene's boyfriend was going with them.)

"Mom, I am old enough to make my own decisions. I had this opportunity come up with Charlene inviting me, and I want to go. I haven't traveled a lot."

"What do you mean, dearest! We took you to Hawaii every summer!" There was another long rant. The Bennets owned a time-share at an inclusive resort. They had gone for two weeks, every August, before school started. They saw the same people every year; Lizabeth played with the same set of kids in the same pool, every year.

"I want to see someplace besides Hawaii," she asserted.

"_Where_ exactly are you going?" her mother pressed.

"Los Angeles."

"You're too old for Disneyland!" Dawn cried.

"We're not going to Disneyland; we're doing museums, like the Guggenheim."

"Art museums! _Art_!" Her mother made it sound like she was going to see a burlesque show.

"Yes!"

Mrs. Bennet seemed stunned. She couldn't conceive of going to Los Angeles if you didn't do the theme parks. She had long argued with a younger Lizabeth about why they couldn't go to Disneyland because of crowds and germs and kidnappings. But now she didn't have a ready argument about why Lizabeth couldn't go to Los Angeles to see the Huntington Library.

Dawn tried one last tactic before she hung up, "but Easter is about family."

"I will come to visit you _this_ weekend," said Lizabeth. "That way, I can see you and Dad. But I am making a life for myself now. I'm not sure when I will have another opportunity to go with friends. Besides, we've been talking for over an hour, and I haven't had a chance to eat. I need to cook dinner." She hoped her mother wouldn't choose this moment to point out that Lizabeth didn't know how to cook. She thought she could almost sense her mother noting down points to consider for future arguments, but they finally hung up.

Lizabeth waffled between calling up Charlene to complain about her mother right then or waiting until Thursday to tell her about her mother's comments. It had been an overwhelming day, however, so after she defrosted something for dinner, she and Kitty went to bed.

The next few days were full of pulses of energy and activity as people, knowing the Judge was back, came in or called which kept her busy. She stood as a witness in Miss Watson and Mr. Rhys-Jones' civil ceremony before the Judge. She had been a witness to a wedding at least a half dozen times now.

George and Lydia didn't return to have their wedding performed, nor did George come back to talk to the Judge. She was curious about that pair and whether the Andrea, who had come to speak to Judge Metcalfe, was his ex-wife. She had no way of knowing except by asking the Judge and that she wasn't brave enough to do.

* * *

"My mother," Lizabeth began once she and Charlene settled with their lunch. She explained about Mrs. Bennet's insisting that she couldn't go to Los Angeles unless Dawn met Charlene. Her friend stared, one eye looked as though it was squinting.

"Your Mom wants to meet me, to approve of me?" Charlene asked in a careful voice.

"Yeah," answered Lizabeth, who raised a hand with her palm out. "But, I am not suggesting it!"

"Oh!" Charlene laughed, and she relaxed her posture.

Lizabeth continued. "I'm just putting it out there that my Mom is a nutcase. I thought I'd mentioned that?" Charlene still laughed gently as if unsure. Lizabeth held her hand up again. "I needed to tell _somebody_ how insane she is. You know it's only been seven or eight months since I've been on my own. She's ruled my life up until now."

"What would she do? Insist on going with you?"

"That's what I wanted to ask. Can you think of all the outrageous reasons she might give for me not to go? So I am prepared when I see her this weekend? I'm going home to visit since I'm not going to be there for Easter. And by the way, I think she's trying to set me up with Edgar again." Lizabeth related her suspicions about the Easter dinner preparations at the Gardiners.

Charlene agreed with Lizabeth's insights and helped consider what excuses Dawn might raise. She might insist that Lizabeth take her to LA, or her mother might come over sick (or her father might get sick). Lizabeth insisted that her father wouldn't step that far. Charlene thought she needed to consider _all_ possibilities.

"Is she the type who might show up the day we leave?" her friend asked.

"Possibly," Lizabeth mused, worried then.

"Maybe we need to leave the night before," Charlene suggested.

"Yes, and _not_ tell Mom about our plans. I didn't tell her Lyle was going with us."

"That's a good call!" said Charlene. "You don't have a grandmother or other relative who's going to be hooked into this, do you?"

"No, it's just her and Uncle Ned."

"Can you try appealing to your Dad to run interference?"

"Dad's just in his own little world." That statement made her stomach turn a little as she thought how much her mother had been in control of the house and her life and how much her father hadn't offered much advice or opinions. "I'm ready."

"Ready to go to LA?" asked Charlene.

"No. I'm ready to cut the apron strings."

* * *

Dawn played the ill health card; something she had done before. Having talked to Charlene about the possibility of her mother sabotaging the trip, it made Lizabeth more resolved to go, no matter what.

"I've discovered lumps. I think they're cancer," were the words that greeted Lizabeth as soon as she walked in the door on Saturday. She fed the cat then had driven to her old home. There came a long tale of woe with Dawn insisting that she had breast cancer and convinced that she was going to die any day.

"What did the doctor say?" Lizabeth asked. Her father was glued to the TV set.

"I haven't been. You know what doctors are like," moaned her mother.

"How do you know it's cancer?" she asked.

"I just know, in my heart," Mrs. Bennet sighed with a hand on her forehead. This conversation was repeated multiple times. Dawn even went so far as proclaiming that she was too ill to cook.

"If only _you_ could cook," she moaned. "If you moved back home, I could teach you!" Her mother brightened and sat up a little as if this was a winning proposition and it would get Lizabeth to quit her job and move back in with her parents. "I don't know why I never taught you. How did I miss giving you those skills?"

Lizabeth spent most of the day not responding to her mother's barbs. Todd spent most of the day taking in college basketball; it was March Madness. Lizabeth offered to go out and fetch dinner.

"I hate eating out; the food isn't the same and will just make me sick." Dawn pooled in her easy chair.

"I love Japanese from Sushi To-Go," said Todd from his place on the couch. Lizabeth fetched her father's favorite take-out meal. She and her father ate heartedly. Dawn only picked at her plate.

Lizabeth was able to plead that her cat needing attention, so she couldn't spend the night and got home late to find the couch throw shredded. Kitty scolded her almost as much as her mother had. But Lizabeth thought she preferred the kitten's scolding because after she had her say, the kitten curled up on her lap and purred a warm, soft, content creature. Something Dawn Bennet would never be.

* * *

One more advantage of the weekend they had chosen for their trip was that it was the March Madness playoffs for college basketball. There was no way that Todd Bennet would be induced to leave the house and drive his wife to Merton so Dawn could either prevent Lizabeth from going or invite herself along.

With the Judge back, it was a smoother week, and Lizabeth had time to look forward to her getaway with Charlene and Lyle. She was attempting to find ways around his talkativeness. But that didn't prevent their meeting up for dinner one night to go over a final itinerary.

All of the little worries which had plagued her fell away. Her trivial preoccupations disappeared, and she was happy to be going. She even ran into Jane Sweet at lunch one day and mentioned that she was going to Los Angeles for the weekend; Lizabeth asked if Jane had been since she began seeing Charles.

"No. I don't know that I would go." Jane seemed distant about the topic of her current boyfriend for once. Lizabeth wondered if some issue had come up, but she didn't know how to ask. Besides, she needed to be back in the recording office in five minutes. There wouldn't be time to stop by the hotel bar until after she returned-Lizabeth would have to check in with Jane later.

The trio left early in the morning on Friday. She thought it would be a straight-forward drive, but Lyle was a cautious driver and the sort who made frequent stops. But they arrived safely in Pasadena. The hotel wouldn't let them check-in as it was too early, but at least it would store their luggage, and the three of them set out to see the first of the sights on their list. Lyle was keen to see the La Brea Tar Pits, which were not as impressive as any of them hoped. But the Los Angeles County Museum of Art next door was far more interesting. They lingered, gazing at and arguing about the works inside.

Next was Griffith Park, which had been at the top of their wish lists. Lizabeth had wanted to see it because it had figured in some movies; Charlene had expressed interest for the same reason. Lyle said he wanted to see it for its historical significance. It was late afternoon when they arrived.

There weren't as many people as they expected. Maybe it was the time of day or the day of the week (like a shift change, but more people would show up later), but no one complained as they walked towards the main entrance. The place was clean and immaculate for something so old. There was a small area on one of the terraces which were cordoned off with metal trunks and those umbrella lights that photographers used. Lizabeth wondered if something was being filmed.

Lyle popped the question, asking a woman standing next to the equipment, "are you filming a movie?"

"A TV show," she answered.

"You know…" Lyle rambled on, expressing his thoughts about the different quality of programs on network TV versus those found on cable or streaming services. The woman frowned and walked away. Her snub didn't faze him.

The trio moved away and went to take in the view from the other terrace. Lizabeth looked at not just the view, but the other people around them, it was more crowded here than on the East Terrace, but she picked out Charles Lee and William Darcy standing together, not against the railing, but over near the building.

As if he felt her gaze on him, William Darcy looked back at Lizabeth.

* * *

A/N: hope quarantine isn't wearing you'all down too much. A week in and getting a little old, but we are hanging in there.


	15. Chapter 15

William put a hand on Charles's arm to quell his speech and leaned over to say, "that's Lizabeth."

"Who?" Often, Charles was in a world of his own.

"We met her up in Merton, over a month ago. At the baby shower party." _That_ got Charles' attention. William knew how frequently his friend had driven north to see Jane Sweet. He had received an earful about their rehearsal and shooting schedule preventing Charles from seeing her. Both Jane and Charles were unhappy with William that they would have to forego their usual hookup.

Charles' scrutiny fell on Lizabeth's, and he smiled. "Cinderella," he quipped.

"Yes." William walked over without breaking their gaze. "Lizabeth, good to see you!" It sounded a little too cheery, that sort of false greeting so many used in his business. He shook his head as though to clear it. "I'm pleased to see you. You've come to LA?"

Her hair was pulled back. She wore jeans and a printed cotton top. The day had been warm, though it would be cooling off as the sun set. His question sparked something inside that made her face light up even more in that setting, there on the Observatory's terrace with such a magnificent view before them. Her dark eyes sparkled; something _more_ was there.

"Yes," she answered, enthusiastic and happy. "I've come with friends for a visit. I've never been!"

"I recall you said you'd never been down," he said. "You remember Charles?"

"Lizabeth." Lee reached out a hand to take Lizabeth's in his, but he also leaned over to place quick kisses on both of her cheeks. William noticed that she pulled her hand back quickly, looking at him in surprise at the gesture.

"Don't mind, Charles. He always has to charm the ladies," said William.

"My friends," Lizabeth turned to indicate a couple. He hadn't noticed them as he was so fixated on her, but the pair was transfixed, staring more at Charles because of his celebrity status than at him. "Did you ever meet Charlene Lucas when you were in Merton? This is her boyfriend, Lyle Collins."

"Hello," said William as he shook hands with her friends.

"Charles Lee." His friend introduced himself.

"So, so pleased to meet you!" exclaimed the boyfriend. "I can't tell you how excited I am to meet a celebrity! Wait until my students hear tell of my visit to Los Angeles this weekend. We came, you know, to visit all the cultural sites that this great metropolitan area has to offer, but _who knew_ I would be meeting a celebrity! My girlfriend was so kind as to come along with me, and asked, most kindly, if her friend could come. So, _of course_, I couldn't say no. This has proved to be worth the investment, if I do say so!"

Charles didn't look fazed by this long speech. He was used to people fawning over him, but William could see that Lizabeth was unnerved by her friend's out-pouring. "When did you get here? How long will you be here?" Willaim asked while Lyle continued to gush at Charles.

"We arrived this morning and go back on Sunday," she said.

He turned his head away for a second before looking at her. "Would you like to meet for drinks or maybe have dinner with me while you're here?"

"What an excellent idea!" Lyle said, turning from Charles to William. "I think a _group dinner_ is a great idea." The friend, Charlene, put her hand on his arm and pulled him a few steps away. Charles discreetly pulled out his phone. The others created a small radius of space around William and Lizabeth.

She smiled, one side of her mouth moving up more than the other. William often noticed small nuances about the way people moved or behaved, but his eyes never left hers.

"Yes," she answered.

He reached out a hand to her. "How about both? We're slated to be here until ten tonight. But want to meet for drinks afterward? _And_ dinner tomorrow?" If he appeared eager, William didn't care. He was. The past two months had been tortuous. But he had been distracted in a way he'd never been before.

Typically, William had a lot of balls in the air because of his work and dealt with multiple priorities without it affecting him. He had people to talk to, scripts to review, a lot of reading, a multitude of emails to read, or compose and send. He was used to waking with work getting him out of bed, and chasing him to sleep. It was the reason he sometimes drove to the beach to stare at crashing waves.

But he had lost an edge to his focus in the past weeks and in keeping his concentration on work and his priorities. He was also a one-man show right now, as Caroline had gone back East to visit her family for the first time in years. Seeing Lizabeth sparked something as he realized that his recent distraction had been because of _her_. It was as if his vision had been either clouded or clarified by meeting her.

"Yes to both," she nodded. The other side of her mouth came up. "We haven't had dinner yet. We'll go and eat. By then, maybe you'll be done?"

"Yes. I can get my assistant to pack up for me," he answered.

"I don't have your phone number." Her smile vanished; she was biting her lower lip.

"I can't believe that during that whole week together we never exchanged phone numbers," he quipped, pulling out his cell. They texted their contact information to each other. "I'll call you when we're done."

"Okay," she agreed. Her friends stepped up, having listened to their exchange. The male friend rambled on with his goodbyes. William didn't hear a word as he parted from Lizabeth, shaking her hand. Charles out-did him by kissing her again on both cheeks. The trio finally walked away.

"A date!" said his friend, turning to stare at him. "I don't remember the last time you had a date, like a _real_ date. Not these fake ones, all for show in front of the paparazzi to generate some publicity."

"Stuff it, Charles." William stared at his friend. Charles never quailed under his gaze; it wasn't like William was a mobster.

Charles laughed. "You _are_ smitten! This is so novel; I don't know if I should tease you or suggest we finish early so you can take her out for drinks and get her home to warm your bed. I really don't!"

"Leave it," William growled. "And we'll finish rehearsing tonight as planned. I didn't pull in a favor with Matt and get him to look the other way if we did tentative rehearsals tonight, before filming when the Observatory is closed on Monday, not to work as _planned_."

Something in his tone of voice made Charles's face slacken as if he didn't quite recognize his friend. "Mandy is still gone. Just how long of a break does she need?" he asked rather than return to teasing his friend.

* * *

William left Alexis to deal with the equipment; he was confident that Charles would offer to help. His friend managed one last dig about William's up-coming date, but another quelling look put him off the subject. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to talk about having drinks with Lizabeth—why it was different from all the drinks or dates he had had before, but he didn't want to pursue it.

He called her from the Observatory parking lot, which was far emptier now than when they had arrived. "Hi," he said when she answered.

"Hi," Lizabeth said back. "We are heading to our hotel. Dinner took forever."

William swallowed. "Do you think you still have time to meet up tonight?" He had managed to get his crew to finish over a half-hour early. His timing seemed to be off; maybe he should have tried her fifteen minutes earlier before she was in the car.

"Yes, though I fear it will be a late night. Can you come out here?" _That_ statement didn't bode well.

"Where is your hotel?" he asked.

"We're staying in Pasadena." She named the hotel. Given the time of day, there shouldn't be much traffic.

"I can be there in about fifteen minutes. I am still up for drinks," he insisted.

"Great. See you soon," Lizabeth said, and they hung up.

Pasadena wasn't a city he was as familiar with as other areas of the metropolitan area that was Los Angeles. He didn't know any particular place to suggest to meet up. But once he was in front of the hotel, he did a quick search and found two possibilities and then texted Lizabeth that he was waiting. Then he thought again, turned off the motor, left the car in the check-in area for the hotel, and walked into the lobby. William's timing was perfect as the elevator doors opened, and Lizabeth stepped out.

"Hi." Her half-smile was there, but there was something in her eyes that made his gut tighten.

"Hi." William couldn't help the glance up and down her figure. She was still dressed in jeans but had a different top on with a jacket over it. She had let her hair down, which made his heart race. He wore his usual dark suit, one of a dozen in his closet. "I parked outside in the loading zone. Let's go."

"Okay." She walked up to him, paused as though waiting for him to shake her hand or kiss her. William had turned to walk in step next to her and wondered if he missed a chance. He should have taken a page from Charles' book and done the two-cheek kiss, at least. Her lips looked very inviting, and he thought he would have skipped the cheeks and gone for the lips.

They were quiet in the car for a few minutes before he mentioned his two bar choices. "The British pub sounds good," she answered. It was only two blocks away, but parking turned out to be something else.

He circled once around the block, grumbling under his breath as he drove. "I think we should have just parked at your hotel and walked."

"Maybe we should have," she agreed. He groaned again as he turned a different direction at a crossroad to see if there was more parking along another street and stumbled across a paid lot. William turned in. "You're not too cold?" he asked, once they were out of the car.

"No," she answered, though she drew her jacket tighter together in front of her. The night air, or shyness? Maybe he missed an opportunity to put an arm around her, but were they _there_ yet?

More people filled the place than he expected when they stepped through the front door. William had to squeeze in beside her in the small entry which was filled with racks of local newspapers and pamphlets about local sights. All the tables looked full. The bar was equally packed; people had their heads together just to hear each other. At least three bartenders were half-hidden behind tall pull tabs of the beers on tap that evening.

"I hope you like beer," he remarked. William put an arm around her to speak into her ear over the noise. Lizabeth didn't stiffen at his touch but leaned into him. He tightened his hold.

"I'm learning to like beer," she answered. "I just thought the pub idea sounded interesting. Are all pubs, like _in London_, like this? Have you ever been?"

"Yes," he answered. A couple was standing up, gathering items, and putting on coats. "Let's snag that table." He pulled Lizabeth towards it without letting go of her. The couple eyed the two of them but didn't say anything, vacating it willingly. William moved their empties to the edge of the table, leaving the tip they left under an empty glass. A waiter came by quickly to take both items.

"So you're still working on _Bella Montaña_, and it's going well?" she asked when the table was clear.

"Yes. _Slowly_—as we sort out the storyline." William spoke about his project; Lizabeth inserted questions. Eventually, someone came to take an order. They stuck to drinks and not food, which made the waiter walk away with a frown.

When the beers came, Lizabeth eyed it doubtfully. "It's _brown_."

"Try it," he encouraged and took a long gulp of his own. She took a small sip, wrinkled her nose, then took another.

"Heavy," she remarked and sipped again. "But I think it's growing on me."

"We've been talking about my work. But how is yours going?"

She wrinkled her nose again but set her glass down. "The same. It's the nature of the job. Just the same day-in, day-out. I process forms, placate people, _you know_." Lizabeth carefully dismissed talking about her world.

William wasn't going to let it go. "But you had that little problem that was plaguing you. Remember? We talked about it at that lunch. I haven't seen you since what, February 3, almost two months. Has anyone else come in to register a business with one of those funky mining names?"

The hands which were holding her beer glass tightened as she listened to his question. He wondered if she didn't want to talk about her work, or if something had happened that made it a difficult topic. "You remember the exact day we last talked?" she asked.

"Yes. It was the last day I was up in Merton. Well, the last _weekend_ I was there," William explained. "But have you found out anything else about why those men are creating businesses with _mining_ in the titles?"

"No," she shook her head. "The number of registrations dropped off after you left." Lizabeth blushed then looked down at her drink. A strand of hair fell down, escaping from behind her ear, catching on her cheek before it covered her eye. William reached over with two fingers and pulled her hair back from her face. He didn't get it tucked back behind her ear on the first try, so he had to swipe his hands through her hair a second time to secure it.

"I still haven't figured out any reason why a man would want a business with the name 'mine' and 'ventures' in it," he quipped as his breath came a little faster. In reality, William hadn't given it a second thought. Lizabeth and her work issues had been banished as Caroline's words had spooked him. But seeing her again brought his interest back entirely—was it desire? Just as Lizabeth Bennet was in front of him, cradling a beer she wasn't enjoying.

"I haven't been thinking much about it either." She raised the glass to her lips, sipped, then put it back down, though this time, her eyes didn't follow the glass. "The one day I finally decided that I would go talk to Judge Metcalfe about it was the day that Mimi had her baby. He ran off to the hospital, and I was stuck holding down the fort. The office has been busier than usual. I don't know if there is more activity in the spring, but I find myself looking forward to lunch far more than I've ever done." The topic animated her; her eyes, which had intrigued him since the Metcalfe's party, expressed her feelings as she related all the activities that kept her busy.

"I'm glad you decided to take a mini-vacation and that our paths crossed," he said. "I hadn't realized that you didn't have my contact information, but I guess I assumed you'd never come my way."

"I did say I hadn't traveled much. My mother was always vocal about the evils of Los Angeles. You should hear the fit she threw when I told her that I was going to come for two days." She smiled again but it broke into a yawn. A hand came up to cover her mouth.

"What time did you leave Merton?" William asked.

"Six a.m." Lizabeth answered when she finished yawning. "It's been quite a day."

"I should get you back to your hotel. I'm glad we found close parking." He looked around at the pub. It was still crowded. Midnight was early to be leaving a pub on a Friday night.

"I am tired." She didn't look at him, nor did she attempt any more sips of her dark ale. William parked money under his glass and stood, holding out his hand. Lizabeth let him snake his arm around her back to lead her out the door.

It was colder outside, and he tightened his grip. He sensed she was so tired that she didn't have anything else to say on the walk back to the car or during the drive to the hotel. He parked in the same loading zone in front of the hotel and got out. Lizabeth had opened her door, but he was there to pull it wider and close it.

"Dinner tomorrow still on?" he asked. She seemed ready to bolt inside the automatic doors. He put a hand on an arm, an innocent enough gesture, and Lizabeth looked up. Those eyes were wary now; nerves had taken hold. William wondered if she was worried he would invite himself in. The hand ran down her arm to a hand, and he squeezed it before bringing it up to his lips to kiss the fingers. "I'll see you tomorrow," he prompted when she nodded.

"I'm looking forward to it," she answered and gave a quick return squeeze.

"Good night." He dropped both his hand and hers reluctantly. When was the last time he had ever had a date that didn't end in a kiss, and usually more? _Never_, he thought.

"Good night," she replied. That just-released hand gave a little wave before her arm flopped back to her side. "See you tomorrow. Thanks for the drink."

Lizabeth didn't march towards the hotel, making those automatic doors fly open. Her hesitancy gave him the clue he needed. Like an awkward teenage boy, he put both hands on her shoulders, leaned over and kissed her lips. William noticed that she closed her eyes as soon as his hands touched her body. It was a gentle kiss, closed lips, a few heartbeats in duration, but he felt her relax under his touch.

He stepped away, pulling his hands free, and she opened her eyes, and there it was, that _something_ shining out of those dark luminous eyes back at him. He thought he might have smiled, but he waved in the same awkward half-hearted manner. "Night."

She brought a hand up, but not to wave again. Lizabeth pulled her jacket closed at the top, near her neck. "Night," she repeated back before turning to go inside.

William went home to bed.

* * *

A/N: I fear life will get a little darker before it gets better. Seems the past few days have been the hard ones, hearing of layoffs and closures and changes to our patterns of life that are likely to be permanent. Cope as best you can. We don't all need to be brave and stoic. Hide under the covers and eat ice cream straight from the tub if need be.


	16. Chapter 16

On Saturdays, William allowed himself the luxury of sleeping in, though there was a routine of activities to take care of. He dropped off laundry and dry-cleaning and picked up his washed items. He went shopping and came home with food and sundries that he needed at the house. However, his mind was only partially on these tasks; the other part was on his plans for the evening.

Given her distaste for the pub and the ale, William was concerned about selecting a restaurant that would please Lizabeth. Did she have a refined palette as far as food, or was she finicky? He knew a good tapas place in Hollywood where you could see the iconic Hollywood sign from the streets below; most visitors gawked with delight at that view. The food at the restaurant was varied enough that _something_ should suit her; it had been a noodle place, but reopened with a new Asian-Italian tapas theme. But hell, both served noodles, right?

Reading scripts was his usual Saturday afternoon activity, and he settled down with his tablet, notepad, and a pen to consider the latest script changes and the new direction he and Caroline had discussed for the final five episodes. He only had marginal luck in concentrating on work. Emails would swim in front of his eyes when he stared at them, and he finally gave up attempting to deal with them. He had all day on Sunday to answer them. Lizabeth was only here and his guest today, _tonight_. His mind's purpose was not on _Bella Montaña _or any other business but his date.

When the carriage clock (an heirloom of his grandfather) struck three, he gave up. His office was a shed behind the house, probably built illegally, but he tidied up his work, and called Lizabeth without texting her first to warn that he was calling.

"Hello?"

"It's William. Just checking on your schedule and what time did you want to meet?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound too breathless.

"Yes!" Was it possible to hear someone smile over the phone? "We got up and out first thing, but the traffic!" she laughed. "I know that they say everyone drives in LA and that you should expect traffic, but I think we didn't believe it. We've only done half of what we wanted to see today." She paused.

"Do your friends want to carry on and try to fit everything in, despite the traffic and crowds?" he asked.

"No. But we made an unexpected stop." There was a pause, or rather, a deliberate silence. He thought she was moving a little, to seek a little privacy so her friends couldn't overhear. "We went to the Huntington in the morning and then The Getty, both of which we agreed to see. But when I suggested we stop to see the Walk of Fame, it was voted down although we were driving through Hollywood."

"Where are you now?" he asked.

"At Forest Lawn." Her voice lowered. "I don't think Lyle likes cemeteries. Most of the headstones are flat to the ground, so it isn't so graveyard-like. Charlene and I out-voted him as _we_ wanted to come, even though it's a touristy thing to do."

"Did you just get there, or are you about to leave?"

"We are about to leave and are thinking about the next stop." Her words as expectations lay in the air between them.

"When did you want to get together for dinner? Your hotel is in Pasadena, but I live in West Los Angeles, so you're closer _now_ than if you go back to your hotel. But maybe you want to change?" he asked. After all, most women would want to change their clothes after being out in the sun and hoofing it around Los Angeles all day.

"Can I talk to Charlene? I certainly don't mind meeting you soon, but I also don't want to upset her if she has immediate plans." Was Lizabeth having second thoughts? It was difficult not to read into her words.

"Just for a point of reference," he interjected, "LA traffic and all, it will likely take fifty or sixty minutes to drive from my house to your hotel in Pasadena."

"Oh!" A long silence twisted his gut as he waited for Lizabeth to continue. "I guess if we did one more thing, we wouldn't be home until six or seven, and then I wouldn't be ready to go for at least a half-hour after that." She was reasoning herself into William coming to get her. He smiled in hope. "It's been a warm day, and I'm sure I look a mess."

"I'll dress casual, so I don't upstage you," he assured her. "I still need to change, and it's likely forty minutes to get there."

"What?" Her question threw him, but then he heard voices on the other end. Her friend, Charlene, must have been listening despite Lizabeth attempting to speak privately. "Charlene wonders if the Hollywood Hills cemetery is any closer or easier for you to get to? All of this just seems so much work for us to have dinner."

The Hollywood Hills cemetery was even harder to get to. Los Angeles was defined by its geography, which included a couple of mountain ranges that shaped the cityscapes. The best way to _that_ locale was for him to drive over the Santa Monica mountains and then head west. William sighed. The hotel meet-up was looking like the best option, and he said so.

"Are you sure?" Lizabeth pressed. He heard the sounds of movement then and could tell that she was cupping a hand over the phone. "Lyle wanted to try one more museum, but Charlene wanted to see the other cemetery. I think they're arguing."

"Without you to break a tie, they will have to work things out for themselves," he asserted. "I'm sure there's something excellent to do that will appeal to both of them in Pasadena. Let's meet at your hotel at 5:00, okay? They can find something to do after dropping you off."

"That still seems early," she said.

"It will be another forty-five minutes back to the place I have selected for dinner, so not so early by then," he explained.

* * *

William was early when he got to her hotel. He eschewed the loading zone and attempted to park in the garage only to find he needed a card key to get in. He ended up parking in a business lot across the street and hoped no one would notice.

Lizabeth was waiting in the lobby when the doors slid open to admit him. Her phone was in her hand, but she seemed elsewhere as though going through some checklist in her head. William watched her pat her purse, flex the hand that held the phone before she looked down at her shoes. He assumed she was doing a last-minute check of her outfit.

"You look beautiful," he said, stepping past the opening. The doors slid closed behind him.

"Hi." Lizabeth straightened the arm that held the phone. "I was just going to text you. And thanks." Her dimple showed.

William was bolder this day and slipped a hand partly around her shoulders to steady her as he kissed her in greeting. It was similar to the one they had shared the night before, but he had to establish some territory. "Hi," he said when he straightened up.

Her eyes sparkled, and her lips curled up as she grinned back at him. "What's for dinner?"

"Tapas. There's a place over in my neck of the woods. Your hotel being so far away makes for an interesting evening getting around LA" He slipped that hand more firmly around her and directed them out of the main doors. "I had to park illegally, so we need to be quick to make sure I haven't been towed."

"Parking is an issue, isn't it?" she said. Lizabeth listed off the places they had been that day while they walked to the car. Then she spoke in more detail about what she and her friends had done and seen. William picked up on an underlying tension between Lizabeth and Lyle and mentioned it.

"He's very anti-tourist stuff or anything that has to do with the movies," she admitted. "My first thought about LA was Disneyland and movie studios, but Lyle wasn't interested. But for all his bombast, I have to say there are places I never knew existed, but which I really enjoyed, like the Huntington."

"What was your favorite thing _there_?" William asked as they turned off one freeway and onto another. Such was life in LA: freeway driving.

"The rose garden. I have never considered myself an outdoorsy person, but now I want a place with enough space to plant rose bushes. I can't explain it, but they were profoundly beautiful and took me by surprise. Maybe it's because they were on the bush and not cut? I feel like I'm a little kid or an alien who has never seen something and is experiencing it for the first time." She laughed.

William thought there was a little embarrassment thrown into that laugh, along with some gentle self-effacement.

"I have never examined myself in a way. I know I've been sheltered, but I am working on changing that. I want new experiences. And if it's planting rose bushes, then, well." Lizabeth stopped speaking. Now she was just embarrassed.

"I have nothing but green grass and the required orange tree in my backyard," he remarked. "You're required to have a citrus tree on your property if you live in the Los Angeles metropolitan area. Did you know that?" William laughed gently. Lizabeth joined in a few seconds later when she realized he was joking.

"Can you eat the oranges?" Lizabeth asked.

"Yes. I suspect I don't water them right as they're bland," he answered. "But yes, you can eat them."

"Is your backyard big enough to accommodate a few rose bushes?"

"I'm sure I could tuck in a few. The lawn uses so much water it wouldn't hurt to reduce its size. I had the front re-done with drought-tolerant landscaping a year ago," he said.

"Have you lived there long?" she asked. William talked about his house. He had it for over five years. It was close to Culver City, where so much TV production happened. "It's also close enough that I can go to the Santa Monica beach and just chill if I need to."

"I think I just don't have an idea of the scale of things," Lizabeth remarked. They were silent for a few minutes, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one. Then she noticed that they were exiting onto Santa Monica Boulevard. "Really! Isn't this famous, like Wiltshire, and Hollywood and Vine, _right_?"

"Probably." William was non-committal. Like most people who lived in LA, he had become immune to oohing and aahing the iconography around him.

"Is our restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard?"

"No. But this is probably the most straight-forward way to get there," he explained.

"Oh! What's that?" she cried as they passed a well-manicured driveway in between rows of ordinary businesses.

"Another cemetery," he answered. "Not as famous as Forest Lawn. It's the Hollywood Forever Cemetery." Forest Lawn was spread over 300 acres. Hollywood Forever was about fifty.

"Anyone famous buried there?" she asked as they drove.

"Lots of people," he answered.

"Like who?" Lizabeth challenged.

"Judy Garland."

"No way! Judy Garland? The Wizard of Oz? How do you know?"

"I've been there at least once." William thought he had visited in just such a scenario, on a date, but didn't want to say so.

"Anyone else?" she asked.

He racked his brains. "Mel Blanc."

"Who's he?"

"He did all of the voices for the Warner Brothers cartoons. Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, you know."

"Oh." Her voice was a mixture of disappointment and irritation.

"Your mother didn't approve of cartoons, did she?" William guessed where her thoughts were.

"No," she admitted.

"Rudolph Valentino?" He was going on the assumption that she wouldn't know who that was, but Lizabeth gasped even louder than she had at Judy Garland's name.

"No way! Oh my god, I had such a crush on Rudolph Valentino!" She rushed through her words. William was surprised. "Do you think we have time to go and see the grave? Is there enough light? Does the cemetery close at 6:00 p.m. or something?"

"No. I think we have time and can go see it." William found a place to turn around. "How do you know about Rudolph Valentino?"

"In college, I discovered a theater which showed old black and white movies. Once a week, they would show silent films, and a guy would play a live organ. There's something fun about that type of movie. They are so over the top." They parked and got out of the car. Lizabeth went through a quick series of pantomimes of a damsel in distress pleading for help, then a villain swaggering about, and finally a hero moving closer to his beloved to soothe and caress and eventually to kiss her.

William laughed. "That's quite unusual. I don't know anyone else who has seen a film made before 1990 besides Caroline."

"I love the old films," she gushed. "I know they're not realistic. Romance was so…everybody wore their heart on their sleeve, and it all worked out in the end. But it wasn't this complicated bullshit that modern life gives us."

William went from imagining two black and white figures sharing the same sort of chase kiss that he and Lizabeth had shared to thinking of several scenes from movies where two people were in love, _yes_, but where their passion destroyed one or the other (or both of them). "Not all modern relationships need to be complicated bullshit and damaging," he asserted. "And romance should be a part of any relationship."

They walked from the car towards Judy Garland's grave (He remembered where it was located, though he didn't recall where any of the others were).

So far, William hadn't attempted to snake a hand around a waist again or even hold her hand, but he stopped suddenly. Lizabeth looked at him, and he put out a hand to remove a wisp of hair off her cheek then cupped his hand there. He closed the distance between them, tightened his hands around her, and kissed Lizabeth Todd Bennet the way he had imagined since he laid eyes on her at the Griffith Observatory.

When he came up for air, he realized that he had closed his eyes as well. She opened hers slowly, which mimicked the way she opened her lips. They curved up in a smile; Lizabeth was pleased, and he had made her happy with a mere kiss. He smiled back.

"Shall we go find Valentino's grave?" They walked through the middle of the cemetery. A statue of a man holding a guitar was perched above one grave. Apparently _this_ cemetery allowed all manner of stones to grace the tops of graves; it wasn't like Forest Lawn with their flat headstones.

"Johnny Ramone. Is he one of the singers from that band?" she asked as she stared at the statute. "I think my dad liked that band."

"I think that's him," he agreed. They found other names that they recognized: Douglas Fairbanks, father, and son. They discovered that they had to walk into a mausoleum to find Valentino. (He was across from Peter Lorre, another name she recognized.)

"You really liked Rudolph Valentino?" he pressed.

"He was intense and handsome and mysterious and romantic," she said, looking at the marble and brass area which indicated where his cremains lay.

_No pressure on me_ thought William. "Maybe that was just the aura he produced when appearing on screen. Plus, he died young and tragically. There's something about dying young that makes us put people on pedestals. Like Jayne Mansfield; she has a plaque in here, though I don't think she's really buried here," he remarked.

Lizabeth's eyes were staring at the brass plaque. 'Rodolfo Guglielmi Valentino, 1895-1926.'

"We need icons to look up to. He was the icon for the 1920s. I know he's long gone, and it's been almost a hundred years since he died. But what would we do without icons?" she said.

Lizabeth smiled that light-up-her-whole-face smile. "Maybe it's the difference between fantasy and reality, but sometimes, when we have icons, it makes those tough days easier to get through. Like when another asshole comes in and asks the same question five different times, doesn't like my answer, so keeps asking, hoping for a different answer." She turned away from the plaque to look at William. "Sometimes, I think I have the wrong job. I spend all day by myself in a way, even though people come in to talk to me."

"You have the Judge," he pointed out.

"He's in his office listening to the police scanner most days. I think part of why I liked college was talking to people. Not that they didn't get on my nerves sometimes. People can rub you the wrong way, and you can't expect to like everyone or for everyone to like you back. But classes and group projects meant I got to be with people, _experience_d people."

"You like talking to people, don't you?" he asked, slipping a hand around her waist. They began to make their way back to the car.

"Yes. Though sometimes I only deal with people on a superficial level. I worry that I don't connect with people in a true, meaningful way at the recording office." She wrinkled her nose, which he noticed because his eyes were fixated on her face.

"You should try acting. Nothing more artificial, iconic, or distancing than acting. It's unreal. I wonder if that is why so many people are bad at it? Only the people who are inherently crooked or false or plastic are the ones who want to act. The decent but shy ones, like you," he swept a kiss on her shoulder, "would be fabulous in front of the lens."

"You think?" she laughed. Not her heart-warming laugh, but a self-conscious one.

On the way to the restaurant, Lizabeth shared a story about another woman who was just as interested in seeing silent films. She was older (old enough to be Lizabeth's grandmother), but she also liked Rudolph Valentino.

"Sally said that her grandparents got married the day Valentino died. Her grandmother wept all through the ceremony in front of the judge. She wept all through her wedding meal, which was just at a counter at Woolworth's. But Sally thought that her grandmother must _not_ have wept through her wedding night as her father was born nine months after the wedding," Lizabeth chuckled.

"Was he named Rudolph?" William asked.

"I don't believe so. I think she once said her father's name was Harold."

"You really do like people," he remarked. Lizabeth was a curious person. Someone who liked to study people, talk to them and ferret out little stories like that one. William wondered if she had considered writing. She said she was a librarian by training; writing was related, wasn't it?

* * *

"What are tapas?" she asked once they had parked and walked to the restaurant. He explained that they were a meal of appetizers, but that you often ordered in a sort of _prix fixe_ manner, but you chose what appetizers you wanted from specific categories.

Most of the items were noodles with a savory twist. William noticed she avoided anything marked spicy or anything from the seafood area. But they selected seven dishes, and he ordered some wine.

The dishes came quickly, and the two of them started sampling their items. Lizabeth asked him more intimate questions about himself, his background, any siblings? He shared about how he had lived in Merton when he was small, but that his mother had moved with him to Los Angeles just about when his memory started.

"Just your mother?" she asked.

"My parents never divorced, but they never lived together once we moved," he explained. "I sort of shuttled between them. Mostly I liked my Uncle Lewis; he was the strongest influence I had in my life. I would be sent up to visit Merton for holidays or a week or two during the summer."

"And no siblings, no brothers or sisters?"

"None." William shook his head before sipping his wine. "I'm guessing you don't have any. Something about you says 'only child.'"

"It's that spoiled princess pout," she responded, sticking out her lower lip in a defiant gesture. _But one_, he thought, _that probably got her what she wanted with little effort._ Lizabeth speared some noodles.

"Did you ever want a sister or brother?" he asked, copying her motions.

The food was swallowed as she pondered his question. "Not really," she answered truthfully.

"Why not? Afraid of competition?" He wondered why he asked _that_ question. But he felt that Lizabeth was setting him some high hurdles to jump if she was interested—as he was—in a relationship. But his question to her was the sort that put her on the spot. Not the best first date material to cover.

"No." She didn't seem upset or embarrassed by the question. "You have to understand that I always had all eyes on me at all times when I grew up. I believed that having a sister or brother would mean that I would have _another person_ telling me what to do." She speared another bite of noodles from a different bowl.

William felt like the air had been driven from his lungs. He thought all only children wished for siblings, and it would be especially true in Lizabeth's case because there would be somewhere else for those watchful parental eyes to go. It never occurred to him that a child would think that another person in the family would mean more intensity and focus around her. She had learned to observe and not engage in such an environment. It explained why she liked those self-styled, 'superficial relationships' at work.

But was she capable of more in-depth ones? But on the other hand, _was he_? William had never put much work into his past relationships. Dating his top actress was free publicity, but it was usually a relationship of two people who merely orbited around each other, not two hearts beating in tandem.

"Wow. Sometimes I think I had it tough because I was split between two houses. But it sounds like you were smothered in love—and not in a good way."

"The farther I get away from my house and my parents, the more I realize how screwed up I am. In other ways, not so much," she remarked. He got a meek smile then. "But did you ever want a brother?"

"Of course I did! I promised I would be good and never fight with him," William smiled. "But I had my cousins. I have always loved them and appreciated their being who they were and being in my life."

"I like my cousin, Tyler. Scott is still in high school. We're working on being friends," Lizabeth explained. They discussed their extended family then.

William shared more details about his cousins. Anne had been tested for things besides health concerns and was reckoned to have a high I.Q. The high school she had attended had been an exclusive one, hidden in Northern California, practically in the wilderness. But Anne had thrived there as best she could, given her health issues. College, however, had been a let-down, and though she had graduated, she had come home to roost next to her mother without finding any meaningful work to keep her mind engaged.

Ryan was a different matter. William reckoned he was just as intelligent as their cousin, but battle had changed him. "He felt lost and discarded by his family, which is why I think he went into the army. He did well and was recognized—but then was wounded in Afghanistan and lost the use of his legs. Sometimes, I look at him and am amazed that he keeps going every morning."

"He is admirable," Lizabeth remarked. William noticed the slight hesitancy in her voice in bolstering his positive portrait of his cousin.

"You don't agree with me?" he asked.

"He asked me out on a date when he knew I was seeing someone, that's all." She picked up her wine glass and stared down at it. "I met him that one time at the Metcalfe's baby shower. I don't know him, but at the time I didn't appreciate it or find it flattering. Even if I have since split with Edgar." She sipped.

William had a half dozen reasons to assert in Ryan's defense, but now the topic of her ex-boyfriend had been brought to the table. He wanted to get out of shark-infested waters. "Do you want to get dessert somewhere else?" he asked as the waiter approached their table. "Shall we try Santa Monica beach?"

"Sure," Lizabeth answered. He paid up, and they left.

They found enough topics to discuss in the car. She had downed a glass of wine, which made her cheeks glow almost as bright as her shirt. She had on a top, a simple skirt and sandals. Perhaps they might walk on the beach, though the weather might drop and make it too cold of a venture.

William knew the area near the beach well and knew exactly where to park. He wasted no opportunity, after closing her door but took Lizabeth in his arms again to taste her. She was relaxed and warm; her hands snaked up his chest. One wrapped around his neck as if to hold him so he couldn't get away and prevented him from removing his lips. She tasted of wine and curry and pleasure.

When he stepped back, he noticed that she had her handbag slung over one shoulder. "You might want to wear that across your chest. Better yet, under your coat. You're not used to big city living." She frowned as though she didn't appreciate the lecture, but moved the strap of her purse over her head to her other shoulder. "Let's go," he said, with an arm around her waist.

They wound their way down the sidewalk towards the ocean. The sun had set, and the last of the residual light was just leaving the sky, but there were dozens of lights from shops and street lamps.

"I wanted to come here, but Lyle thought..." Lizabeth whispered, then left her sentence unfinished while she looked around her with the wide-eyes of a tourist.

"Everyone gets to be a tourist. It's okay," he said, holding her a little tighter. They crossed Ocean Boulevard and walked along its wide edges underneath the palms planted there.

"It's like a scene from a movie," she whispered. They walked in silence for a few minutes. "Where are we going?"

"The pier. It's _iconic_, so I thought you would like it," William answered with a grin. "I'm not sure if there is dessert to be had there, though." He squeezed her against him again. Then William took advantage of wine in his blood, and the general ambiance of the place and swept Lizabeth into his arms for another kiss. Kisses with her were new and sweet. Running the tip of his tongue against hers sent thrills through him and heated his blood.

Lizabeth was suddenly wrenched from his arms and fell to the ground. A young man, who had fallen to one side on his bicycle, quickly righted himself and rode away. William leaned over to help her stand. "Did he bump into you?" he asked.

"No." Her voice was small and scared. "He grabbed the strap of my purse and tried to take it."

"Are you hurt?" he cried. William had his hands on her but now looked her over more carefully. Her knees looked red, the side of her skirt had dirt on it, but she didn't look bruised or bloodied. "Does your shoulder hurt?"

Lizabeth reached up to gently life her purse strap off her shoulder and then moved it around. "I think it's okay. I will probably have a bruise there, and on my hip where I landed." Her chin was down, but she looked up at him with eyes that were on the verge of tears. "It's…invasive and ugly…a violation, to think someone would just steal something right off of me like that." She gathered her purse up against her chest in a protective gesture even though she was still wearing it strapped across her body.

"Want to jettison the pier and go somewhere else? How about my house, which is safe and warm?" It had cooled considerably, though William didn't think the shiver that ran through her was due to the cooling weather. He hadn't intended to take her to his house. That was too forward for a first date, especially with _her_. But the situation was different now. "I can rustle up some dessert at home; then I'll drive you back to your hotel."

His arm cradled her shoulders as he looked down at her. It had been an interesting date; he had envisioned many scenarios with Lizabeth, but none of them had occurred. Perhaps that was because reality never played out the way you planned it, step by step. There had even been a small hope, nursed at the back of his head, that this might be an 'away game' evening as Charles christened them. Nights one spent at a lady's house. It would be neutral territory for both he and Lizabeth if William spent the night in her hotel room since he had been to her house once before as a _friend_. He had feared that inviting her to _his_ might cause her to believe he was pressuring her.

But their dynamic had changed because of the thief on the bike. She had nothing to say in reply as he talked on the short drive to his house. She still clutched her purse to her chest, having passed the seatbelt over it when she strapped herself in. He had another thought; he should offer to take her back to her hotel. That subject was mentioned as they neared the exit from the freeway. Since William was driving, he couldn't see her response.

"No. I don't want to end the evening on a sour note," Lizabeth replied.

* * *

A/N: the little story about Lizabeth's friend, Sally, who had a grandmother who wept all through her wedding day is a family story from my husband's family. His Grandmother Jeanne had such a crush on Valentino that she _devastated_ to hear that he had died the morning of her wedding. Family lore is that she wept _all day_. Her son was born a _year_ later though, not nine months after the wedding. Maybe Jeanne wept all night?

I hope everyone is doing well. While I get out on walks, isolation is getting to me. Friends just scheduled a 7-way Zoom meeting for Wednesday just so we can all chat and catch up.


	17. Chapter 17

William swung off the freeway and was in auto-pilot as he navigated the streets to his house. He talked about how difficult it was to find a house in a price range he could afford, one somewhere slightly near where he worked. Lizabeth remained silent, but he could sense her listening to his house-hunting story.

When he pulled into the driveway, she made a small sound, one of pleasure. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you," he answered. The light in the carport stayed on all the time and illuminated the front of the house, though he didn't think it did justice to it as much as daylight did. When he unlocked the front door and flipped the switch to turn on the standing lamps in the living room, she gasped. None shone overhead, but the rough beams above were far more impressive than mere lights.

"It's charming. I take it; it's old?" Lizabeth asked.

"Built in 1922, so almost a hundred," he answered. The walls were white. There were exposed wood ceilings in both the living area and the dining room, which lay just beyond. "Put your stuff wherever you feel comfortable throwing it. I'll go see what I can fix for dessert."

She seemed hesitant to part with her purse but marched through the living room to the dining table where she pulled off her jacket and placed her purse underneath. "Can I use the bathroom?"

William stopped a few feet away from the doorway that led into the kitchen. "Let me give you the grand tour, so you don't get lost." A doorway in the dining room led to a narrow hallway where three bedrooms opened off of it. One at the back was a guest room. The middle bedroom had boxes and a table with papers. The front bedroom was William's with a huge bed, a chair, and a dresser taking up all of the available space.

"You make your bed?" Lizabeth commented.

"Only on the weekends," he answered. _And maybe if I think it might impress someone_.

"This is an old bathroom! Teal tile with black trim. It's very old-fashioned!" she laughed when he showed her the original bathroom.

"It's _iconic_," he quipped. "A smaller one is off the kitchen with a tiny shower. Mostly I use that one. If you need a washcloth, they're in the closet in the hallway. Don't be shy to wash off the dirt." He turned to her. "You okay after that incident?"

"Yes." That seemed an automatic response. Her eyes were guarded and not expressive. William knew it was bothering her and would concern Lizabeth for a while. Anytime someone picked your pocket, it was a violation and painful in a way. He'd had a couple of incidents over the years. They always prickled.

"Come find me in the kitchen now that you know how _not_ to get lost," he said and left her to clean up.

He had the mixer out and was whipping cream when she returned.

"I like your house. It's charming and cozy." She took in the modern kitchen which was a little at odds with the rest of the house, especially the industrial-sized stainless steel refrigerator. But he believed the designer had done an excellent job with the colors to tie it back into the rest of the house. She perched on one of the barstools on the other side of the counter. "What are you making?"

"Whipped cream." William shut off the mixer and placed it on the counter. He turned around and opened a cabinet that had glass-fronted cabinets and held bowls. Two small clear-glass bowls were pulled out.

"I thought whipped cream came in cans?" He wasn't sure if she was teasing or serious.

"That's scum compared to this." He opened a drawer, pulled out a soup spoon, and plunged it into his creation. William didn't bother to wipe it on the side of the bowl; it was so thick it wouldn't fall off the spoon. "Try it."

Lizabeth took the spoon with the same sort of hesitation he had seen about all the dishes they had ordered that evening. He would have to work on expanding her food horizons. He had the idea that her mother had carefully controlled her diet but probably wasn't the best cook, so she hadn't exposed Lizabeth to a wide selection of food choices. Like a hesitant little kid, she licked the end of the spoon first, but then her eyes went wide. The spoon went farther into her mouth as she licked off more of the whipped cream.

It was only after the spoon was clean that she spoke. "Wow. I didn't think there would be _any_ difference. I think you've spoiled me now. I won't ever be able to stomach the other stuff again!" The dimple was showing again, which he took as a good sign that she was relaxing after her troubles.

William poured raspberries into the glass bowls and dolloped whipped cream on top. Then he pulled a micro-grater out of a drawer, chocolate out of another, and grated dark chocolate over the cream.

"Were you a chef in a past life?" Lizabeth asked. She leaned forward, her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands.

"This is simple stuff," he replied. Another cupboard door opened, and a bar tray was pulled out. It was black and lined with cork. He put the two bowls on top, added spoons, wine glasses, and a wine bottle opener. "Come on." He led the way to one of two sets of French doors at the back of the kitchen while carrying the bar tray and flicked a light switch; he opened the doors. Lizabeth followed.

An overhead light lit a small patio which gave way to grass on one side, but William moved to the right where the patio grew in size. Nestled against the fence was a pergola covered with some climbing vine. Underneath was a long narrow table which probably sat ten people. The far side was one long bench, but the near side had chairs pushed against it. He put down the tray then walked over to a switch and turned on a set of lights that were strung back and forth beneath the pergola.

"It's magic," Lizabeth whispered.

"Not quite," William said as he headed back inside. He turned off the patio lights so that only the pergola lights remained. It was dark, but not a moody and uncomfortable dark. The soft, yellow light from the string was almost like candlelight. "Have a seat. No, not there, other side." Lizabeth had moved to the table and was pulling out a chair. But she walked around and shuffled along the bench to sit in the middle in front of the bar tray.

William was mesmerized watching her take her seat but turned to open his office door (the shed formed one end of the patio). He had a small wine cellar with temperature controls built into a closet in his office and decided on champagne. When he came back with a chilled bottle, she seemed relaxed and was running her fingers through her long strands of hair; he thought she looked as if she belonged there.

"Instead of dessert wine, I thought champagne." He showed her the bottle.

"Do you actually have _both_ in your house?" Lizabeth asked. Her hands fell to her lap, and she looked quizzically at him.

"I host parties here. I tend to keep a stocked cellar," was his response. William shuffled down the bench to sit beside her. "You're okay with champagne?"

"I don't think I've ever had it," she answered. Her dimple teased him.

"A first then. It will go with our dessert." He removed the foil, and the cage, then pulled the cork from the bottle.

"Aren't you supposed to send it flying across the yard?" she accused.

"Not required," he answered. William poured champagne into the two glasses, set the bottle down, then moved the glass bowl with raspberries in front of Lizabeth. "Your dessert."

"I'm not sure." She pouted a little.

"I am determined to expand your horizons," he insisted.

"I did like the cream," Lizabeth acknowledged and dipped her spoon in, taking two raspberries, a massive dollop of cream, and some chocolate. Her eyes said it all. The pergola lights were reflected in them as they shone with intensity and delight. "It's wonderful." Her voice dropped a couple of notes and became deeper; William's insides lurched in response.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to pull her towards him for a kiss or press her back down on the bench and push her skirt up. Both probably. He sipped his champagne instead, letting it sit in his mouth for a minute, feeling the bubbles dance, noting its taste before it traced down his throat. He allowed it to distract him from the woman next to him. He figured she would taste of raspberries and champagne now, which was an even sexier combination than curry and wine.

"I can't believe that you just whipped up a dessert like that. Did you have everything on hand?"

"It takes less time to make whipped cream than it does to go to the store to buy a can of it," he quipped.

"But you have to have cream at home!" she exclaimed.

"Doesn't everybody?" he leaned back, relaxed, and happy. William poured himself another glass of champagne and knocked down half of it quickly. Lizabeth finished her bowl of raspberries and cream. He didn't touch his in case she wanted more.

He topped off both their glasses, using the action of sipping to take in his companion. William wasn't sure what to do next. He thought he had done well that evening as far as romance. There had been the hiccup by the pier, but she seemed to have set it aside, and he didn't want to mention it. There had been their slight tiff, if you could call it that, about Ryan and she had countered with Edgar. He didn't know what Lizabeth wanted besides romance. Any other woman would know what to do next or know what she wanted. But Lizabeth had no experience, and how did she get some without guidance? Did she realize trial and error might be involved?

He put his glass down. "Can I show off my orange tree?" he asked. His voice had gotten deeper, a by-product of drinking champagne. Not all drink affected him like that.

"Sure." Lizabeth stood up with her glass in her hand. She seemed a little shaky, and William decided he _had_ to taste a champagne and raspberry kiss. He stood quickly to enfold her in his arms. Though not as sensual as earlier kisses, the taste put him in mind of one thing only. He held her even tighter as the kiss deepened; he could hear little moans come from Lizabeth's throat. His tongue teased hers while a hand stroked down the side of her skirt.

He broke off, then kissed her again, even more on fire as champagne and desire fueled his tongue and his hands, which stroked her bottom and back. Lizabeth had her hands up around his neck, though not as if she was holding onto him. She seemed mesmerized by the kissing as she moaned again under his onslaught. William pulled back and let his arms drop. "Let's go."

He walked over to his office and turned on the outside light that covered the lawn area. Lizabeth took a few minutes to untangle herself from the table to join him.

"It's so small!" Lizabeth complained.

"It's probably fifty years old," William protested. "Orange trees aren't huge like oaks."

"What's that? Do you have a treehouse?" She took a step away from him and pointed to the back corner of the yard.

"I have a tree _deck_. It came with the house," he answered. William was embarrassed by that one feature. He had always meant to get rid of it, but it had been a low priority in his busy schedule.

Lizabeth crossed the lawn to look at the structure in the tree. Someone had created a crow's nest-like edifice all around the trunk of a tree about ten feet off the ground. The structure had no ceiling; it was just a small platform with a railing all around it. In the process, they had cut down most of the tree's viable limbs. William thought it hideous as the tree didn't throw out very many leaves anymore.

"Can I go up?" she asked.

"Of course."

A small ladder leaned at an acute angle, and she climbed up it to stand on the platform. "It's charming, just like the rest of your house."

"I always thought it clashed with the rest of my house," William asserted.

She leaned over the railing, holding on with one hand and her hair spilled down, framing her face. William thought of Juliet or some maiden waiting for her lover to ascend a tower to rescue her from some evil. His mouth opened to take in larger gulps of air in an attempt to cool his desire for the figure above. "Are you coming back down?" he asked.

"I think you need to keep your tree _deck_," Lizabeth laughed, gazing down at him. She moved carefully to descend the ladder; William was there to help her with the last few steps, even though she didn't need help. She snaked her hands around his waist, clenching him tightly. He wasn't sure if she initiated the kiss this time, but he didn't want to let go or stop.

But the ladder had to be uncomfortable pressing against her spine. He put an arm around her waist and walked and kissed her back across the lawn to the patio. They sat back down on the end of the bench (which had cushions), with their arms and lips still entwined as they pressed against its hard back. The string of lights from the pergola above gave a warm glow to her hair and cheeks, but her eyes blazed with a passion which he thought mirrored his own.

"Do you want to stay?" William asked. One of her hands jerked. The other kept up its series of strokes along his arm. His gaze didn't falter, but he could see in Lizabeth's eyes that she was struggling. The fire was dimming.

"Um, no," she whispered and laid her head against his chest, hiding her eyes. "You know…we're leaving first thing in the morning. I think that would be awkward to have to run back to pack…and leave." Her hands stopped all movement then, and Lizabeth lay still in his arms. William felt her passion cool; he felt he had never been more on fire.

"No worries," he said, gently stroking a shoulder. He tried not to be obvious about taking in deep breaths to cool things down inside. He needed a little space, so sat up straighter and shuffled away a few inches after letting go of her. She, in turn, sat up and looked at the remnants of their meal.

"You didn't eat your dessert," she whispered. Lizabeth shuffled away a few more inches as if to inspect that she was correct. William thought she was embarrassed or felt awkward, and wondered if he hadn't met some expectations.

"Let me make a little coffee, so I'm okay to drive." He went back into the house. Not wanting to shut her out entirely, he left the French door open, even though he was likely to get bugs. He wasn't sure if she liked to drink coffee so late at night, but he only needed a cup to help clear his head. A half a pot was soon brewing before he went back outside.

Lizabeth looked dreamy and relaxed. He thought she looked like she belonged under his pergola, bathed in delicate light. But it wasn't to work out. At least not that night.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. He thought she must be sleepy, but she surprised him and stood quickly. "I can help clean up." Her hands moved to pick up their items on the table.

"Don't worry about them," William said as he strode over. "Leave them." She continued to put the dishes on the bar tray. He moved around the table to stand next to her and watched until she had finished stacking everything on the tray, then she stilled. "Lizabeth." He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "I've loved our evening together. I'm sorry if there were a few bumps," he rubbed his fingertips lightly along one shoulder.

"I _asked_ you to come have dinner with me," he said, then faltered, trying to end with some gracious speech. For all the work that he was involved with, nothing came to mind. William thought he was still fueled with desire (and some disappointment), though there was hope for another day. "We've had a great time, don't you think?" Lizabeth nodded in response. He thought he could see the pulse beating in her throat as she looked up at him. She was just as attracted to him as he was to her, but not ready to say yes.

His lips plastered hers with a fierce kiss fueled by the last of the champagne before he pulled back and slipped an arm around her. "I want to see you again. Hopefully, that doesn't mean I have to wait two months."

"Are you going to be in Merton anytime soon?" she asked as they walked into the kitchen.

"I can make time," he answered. The coffee had brewed, and he poured a travel mug for himself. She refused the offer and went to get her coat and purse.

William did most of the talking on the way back to her hotel. She answered questions but seemed less engaged. It could be because of the hour of the day, but he thought it was because he had asked her to stay. _Damn Caroline_ for giving him the burden of knowledge, though William didn't know if he would have asked her a second time had he not known. But he wasn't giving up and didn't want to end on a sour note as Lizabeth had mentioned.

* * *

Lizabeth answered the questions which William set her, but struggled with her unrealized romantic expectations even though she _knew_ they were unrealistic. She wanted romance. Even though she knew how simplistic they were at portraying relationships (a couple meets, there's a little conflict and then the man and the woman, despite their differences, overcome an issue and fall in love), part of her wanted all the trappings.

She wanted the perfect ambiance between her and a lover, with _nothing_ impeding their time together. When she had run into William at the Griffith Observatory, a chill had run down her spine. Seeing him on the terrace, a _chance meeting_, had been exactly like a scene from a romance novel: to run into each other unexpectedly. He was so handsome, and she jumped at the opportunity to spend time with him and try something new.

Yet Lizabeth was bothered by the slight hitches in their time together. She figured her lack of experience had a lot to do with that. Maybe William hadn't found them concerning at all. She couldn't get over a wish in her head for a perfect date. Then again, that was probably an artificial reality. But it _had_ been a first date, and she had never imagined sleeping with someone on a first date. But Jane had done it—slept with Charles Lee the night she had met him.

Was part of her reluctance some vestige of her mother always being in her head which made her overthink situations? Lizabeth needed to break free. Hadn't she considered sleeping with Edgar? (Though they had dated for months). What was different about sleeping with William?

He pulled into the loading zone at her hotel but got out to open her door.

"Thanks," Lizabeth said as she took his hand to extricate herself from the car.

William didn't release it, but put his other around her back, and kissed her. If she thought it would be a mild, goodbye kiss, she was wrong. It was wild and intense and hot, just like that last kiss before they left his house. Lizabeth squeezed his hand tight, not intending it as a signal (but her insides turned over). He must have thought that meant she wanted him to stop, as the hand at her back fell away, and the hand holding hers softened.

"I have a busy week next week as we film on Monday, and Caroline is back on Tuesday." He stopped to look at her with a face she couldn't read. "I'll call you, but I can't say when I'll be able to drive up." Lizabeth thought that his work schedule must be on his mind.

"Okay." She wasn't sure if he was pulling back or merely explaining about his workweek.

His free hand came up to her shoulder again. William kissed her, lightly this time. "I should take off; I see a car coming." Their entwined hands were pulled up to his lips for one last kiss.

"Bye," she said. Then she marched towards the hotel doors, which opened to welcome her.

"Bye, Lizabeth," he called after her.

* * *

She passed through the doors and up the elevator a mixture of emotions. LMost of them canceled the others out until the overall effect was numbness; such a state was probably the best for facing Charlene after such an evening.

Her card key unlocked the door, and she opened it slowly so as not to disturb her friend. The room was dark and Lizabeth stole in, thankful she didn't have to discuss her evening so quickly after its events. Peeking around the corner at the two beds, however, she noticed that Charlene wasn't curled up asleep. The bathroom door was open, so her friend wasn't there. She and Lyle must still be out. Perhaps they had taken in one last site and then gone out to a late dinner.

Hurrying a little to avoid questions if she could, Lizabeth dressed for bed and turned the light back off. Sleep didn't come as her mind evaluated her evening. The kisses were like nothing she had experienced before—_so cliché_ and yet she couldn't characterize them any other way. Lizabeth had no experience to rely on, so she had to fall back on what she read in books. She was attracted to William far more than she had ever been to Edgar. (Had she _ever_ been attracted to Ed?)

She kept recalling those kisses under his pergola and by his tree 'deck,' and as they strolled together in his backyard with their arms entwined—they had all been magnificent. Lizabeth's pulse raced just thinking about them. But she was also a little afraid. Sex was one thing. Sex with her feelings involved was another. She couldn't rely on knowledge derived from books when her feelings were so involved—it frightened her to take that step.

Usually, whenever she got emotional, it had never ended well. When she was a child, such situations were ones that her mother manipulated and used against her. To open herself up to William by having sex meant allowing herself to be vulnerable. It meant she might be hurt at some future date. To be open and emotional led to pain; not often right away, but it was wounding. It was what she had learned as a child. She thought about Jane Sweet considering that ultimately she and Charles had no future together. Lizabeth's heart beat even faster as she imagined an entire relationship rise and fall before her eyes. _Before she had even had one_. Did all women do this?

She knew William was attracted to her. He said he wanted to see her again, and that he didn't want to allow months to go by before they saw each other. Their goodbye in front of the hotel had seemed a let-down compared to the hotter kisses and activities of the evening. But how could she truly judge? And she had no way of measuring the depth of William's interest in her.

It occurred to her that her mother made sure that Lizabeth knew how she felt, by using words, and by frequently repeating herself. But few people took such pains to let others know their feelings. It seemed the average person was more reticent, especially if she or he was expressing what were considered negative emotions. Her job, as she had often reflected, was one which led her only into superficial relationships, not deep ones. It was why she had been cultivating her friendships with Charlene, Jane, Mary—and even Doug.

Her thoughts drifted again to that passionate scene under the pergola when William had asked her to stay. She hadn't been articulate, instead, she had stumbled over her refusal, and gave a lame excuse about getting up early. William had accepted her refusal gracefully and driven her home.

But she pondered his words. 'No worries.' _What did that mean_? He wasn't pressuring her, but was he still interested? Or was it a sort of 'oh well, I'll find someone more accepting another time?' How much did she know about William Darcy? Their first couple of meetings had been a rollercoaster of sorts.

Charlene and Lyle still weren't back, and it was past one. Lizabeth glanced at the alarm clock that was in the room. 1:18 a.m. and her friend was a no show. Lizabeth's heart did a funny little flip as it occurred to her that maybe her friend _wasn't_ going to return, but was in Lyle's room (which thankfully wasn't next door). But the memories and feelings of being vulnerable after the bicycle thief had tried to take her purse hit her. She got up and flipped the deadbolt on the door and curled up to sleep.

* * *

A loud sound woke her up in the morning sometime after six. Lizabeth was disoriented and had to recall that she was in a hotel, and tried to figure out what the noise was. She heard a knock, the handle was rattled, and then Charlene's voice, "it's me, let me in!"

"Oh!" Lizabeth's heart beat even faster, but she got out of bed and approached the door. "I have to push the door closed to remove the bar," she explained after peeking through the gap and ascertaining that it _truly_ was her friend.

Neither one looked the other in the eye as Charlene came in and shut the door. Lizabeth didn't know exactly what to say to her friend about sneaking into the hotel room just after six. (Was she sneaking in? It was Charlene's room too). Should she ask about her spending the night with Lyle? But Charlene turned the tables on her.

"I'm surprised you're here. Or that you're by yourself. I thought you might stay with William."

"First date," was Lizabeth's immediate reply.

"I thought Friday was your first date, last night would be your second," said Charlene, more cavalier than she believed her friend was usually, especially after having been caught slipping into the room. Perhaps she was wondering why Lizabeth hadn't done the same.

"We did go to his house," she admitted. "But still, I came back."

"Well, I'm going to shower." Charlene was a little short. Lizabeth wondered if she didn't want to avoid speaking about _her_ evening. Her friend took a long time in the shower—thankfully, there was an unlimited supply of hot water.

When they had planned the trip, the three of them thought they could make one more stop on Sunday. But given the traffic in Los Angeles (and perhaps because Charlene and Lyle were so focused on each other), they decided to head for home as soon as they packed and had breakfast.

The two in the front seat talked most of the way, and not about the trip. Even though they had been dating for a while, having slept together seemed to have unlocked something. The pair appeared to feel the need to share and talked almost exclusively with each other. Lizabeth watched the miles run under the car as she stared out the window and tried not to think too much about William. But having run into him, she wondered if they were as compatible as those two in the front seat seemed to be. Would he call, and would he visit?

She was dropped off, her bags unloaded, and they said goodbye. Lizabeth took a second shower in her apartment and got a load of laundry going before she went to pick up the cat. Shirley from Facilities was cat-sitting. Rather than coming in to feed Kitty twice a day in her apartment, Shirley thought Lizabeth's pampered kitten would go crazy if left by herself for three days, so she had taken the cat home with her.

Shirley lived in a small house, and as soon as her friend opened the door, she declared, "get in! She loves to escape now!" Lizabeth jumped inside and had the door slammed behind her. What came next was a ten-minute plea from Shirley to give up the kitten. After three days, her friend didn't think she could live without the cat. Lizabeth declared the same.

"Do you think we could tag team? Like divorced parents? I could have her on weekends?" Shirley offered.

"I only see her on the weekends," Lizabeth argued in return. Kitty was indifferent to her, but rubbed against Shirley's ankles.

"She likes to have a house to explore, and loves going outside," said Shirley.

"Outside! You didn't let her outside. Dear me, you _have_ spoiled her."

"Exactly. It's why you need to give her to me," Shirley said without reservation.

"You're blackmailing me," Lizabeth laughed.

"Yes," her friend admitted.

Kitty was bundled into her crate and howled the six minutes home. She spent the rest of the evening hiding under the sofa and growling at Lizabeth whenever she attempted to coerce her to come out. Lizabeth wanted a companion to snuggle with, but the kitten would take another day to forgive her for leaving her for the weekend.

* * *

A/N: Sorry I'm late posting. Too many Zoom meetings! LOL

Hope you'all are thriving. At least we got to turn over March and can stare at April now.


	18. Chapter 18

Work distracted Lizabeth. She had an unusually busy day, perhaps because the office had been closed on Friday (which was characteristically the most hectic day of the week). Two men came in to register fictitious business names with 'mining' in the title just before the office was to close for lunch. While they didn't linger as some did, having to process two at the same time still carried her past the noon hour. By the time she locked up for lunch, it was too late to go out, and she sat in the break room to eat a protein bar that she kept in her desk.

Lizabeth had managed to repair the chaos she had wrought to the break room by rescuing Kitty. But behind the shelves, there was still that missing patch of drywall. Shirley said that money for the repairs had to go before the city council at next week's meeting, and she had been asked to present a budget. Lizabeth hoped that her friend wouldn't exaggerate the cost of repairs, making the situation difficult for Lizabeth because she wouldn't give Shirley the cat. It wasn't that big of a hole, and just how much money would it cost to fix?

Her small lunch and the long weekend made her tired. Initially, she thought to go to the hotel to check-in with Jane to see how she was holding up since Charles hadn't come to visit. But Lizabeth couldn't hold back her yawns most of the afternoon, so changed her mind and decided to go straight home after work.

Late in the afternoon, an older man came in. He appeared in his forties if Lizabeth had to guess, maybe even fifty. She realized how difficult it was to tell people's ages. His hair was dark, but his beard was salt and peppery; however, he looked far cleaner and neater than the other men who had been registering businesses. Mr. Johns was talkative but not flirtatious as so many of the others had been, and she felt comfortable talking to him as she explained the registration process.

Emboldened, she asked Mr. Johns what his company business was for. "Mining," he said. She noticed that when he smiled, he had wrinkles that appeared around his eyes. It didn't detract from his overall appearance. He wasn't handsome, or maybe he was too old for her to feel attracted to him. But something about his face made him seem positive, and his manner kind.

"Mining?" Lizabeth was confused.

Mr. Johns grinned. "Mining, yes! bit-coin mining."

She stared at him, even more confused. "How do you _mine_ bit-coins? I've heard about them, aren't they electronic money? I don't understand how they work."

"Blockchains!" He grinned again with a look of knowing something that another does not.

Lizabeth thought he wasn't going to share. "Blockchains?" she prompted, hopeful.

"Each time someone uses bit-coins in a transaction, it becomes part of a public record in a _blockchain_ that needs to be computed. We call that _mining_." Mr. Johns signed his name and pushed the clipboard back towards Lizabeth.

"So you're mining bit-coins," she said, more to herself than to the man.

"Yes," he said. Lizabeth passed him copies of his paperwork, and he left.

While she and Charlene often called each other (or even met for dinner) on Mondays, she didn't hear from her friend. She would need to weather this new awkwardness, though she hoped it didn't cool their friendship. Charlene was enamored with her boyfriend, and Lizabeth didn't want to insist on maintaining a routine merely because they had established one; she didn't think that was what friends did. But she hoped Charlene wouldn't drop her as a friend because she now had a boyfriend.

She fully expected her mother to call, but Dawn didn't reach out to nag or preach. Lizabeth crawled in bed soon after getting home and could only wonder when the other shoe would drop and what craziness her mother had up her sleeve.

On Tuesday, she arrived at the hotel bar after work and found Jane sitting at the counter. But then she heard a phone ring and watched her friend answer, her demeanor changing before she walked off to a far corner. Lizabeth didn't think Jane even noticed that she had arrived. Mary was at the piano and gestured with her head for her to sit close. Joe brought her a drink without having to ask.

"It's Charles," Mary remarked, glancing at Jane.

"I sort of wondered. I know that he didn't come up here as I ran into him when I was in LA." Lizabeth took a sip of the drink; it must be one of Joe's experimental cocktails. She made a face as it was very citrusy and didn't sit right on her tongue.

"You saw Charles on your trip?" Mary prompted.

"Yes," she nodded. Mary didn't say anything but had a question in her eyes. Lizabeth looked away from her friend's gaze. "I saw William while I was there," she offered, then took another experimental sip.

"Saw as in ran into unexpectedly or saw as in 'we dated?'" Mary asked.

"As in _dated_," she answered. Lizabeth looked up, thinking there would be questions or that Mary would begin to play the piano. She only saw curiosity in her friend's eyes.

"Interesting. I didn't see that coming," said Mary.

"Really?" Lizabeth frowned, trying to remember when Mary had last seen William Darcy. "Why?"

"I was watching that woman check you out that one day," she explained.

Lizabeth thought she blushed, at least her insides heated up. "Was Caroline checking me out? I guess I'm not as clued into that sort of thing. It was a rather emotional day for me, _marriage proposal_, and all."

"She kept it very low-key, but I noticed," Mary attested.

Lizabeth had a thought, and she couldn't help but ask, "are you _interested_…in her?"

Mary smiled. "No." Her head shook as though she was tired. Lizabeth felt a story was about to unfold and waited. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Mary reached down and ran her hands over the piano keys, but didn't play them. "I am asexual. I'm not interested in having sex with anyone."

"Oh." Lizabeth immediately bit her lower lip, wondering if that was insensitive. "I've not understood that term. Wait, that sounds bad. It's _you_ we're talking about, not some generic group." Her stomach turned over. The acidic drink wasn't helping.

"People are perplexed about the term and me. Especially when I also say I can be very romantic," said Mary. She started to play.

"Romantic?" Lizabeth hoped she sounded encouraging and not nosy.

"Asexual means I don't feel sexually interested in anyone, women or men. But I do get crushes on people, and on both sexes. It puts me in a rather small group, don't you think?" Her eyes sparkled in a manner that Lizabeth had never seen before.

"I get it. I'm a romantic too. I think that's part of my problem. I let my desire for romance get in the way of my sexual expression." She looked from Mary to her drink, frowned, and pushed it away.

"Still an issue?" Mary didn't bring up Lizabeth's struggles in more explicit terms, for which she was thankful.

Lizabeth nodded. "I like William, more than I ever liked Ed. Maybe I just need to take the plunge and do it? I have these romantic ideals about my first time, and it's hard to give them up."

"The first time is likely to be awkward and make you look back with a grimace. Just get it over with, so you can get to the good times," Mary suggested.

"How can you give advice about…" Lizabeth's voice trailed off and looked around at who else was in the hotel bar. Joe was in his usual place, and there were a dozen people at the tables with a waitress serving them. No one was near.

"I told you. I'm a romantic, especially when I see other people in love. It's hard when I want romance but not sex. There aren't many people up for that sort of a relationship." Mary had her eyes on Lizabeth, though she kept playing as beautifully as ever. Lizabeth admired her skills.

"I like William. I hope he likes me."

"Why do you say that?" Mary asked.

"We had a date on Friday and Saturday," she began. "He…he asked me to stay, but I didn't want to. I haven't heard from him since."

"Have you called him?" Mary brought her brows together in a dramatic fashion.

"No," Lizabeth replied with surprise.

"This is the twenty-first century. You can call or text first if you want to," Mary admonished.

_Mom_, Lizabeth thought, ready to explain how crippled she had been under her mother's thumb. But then she owned up that this was _not_ Mrs. Bennet's fault. Lizabeth had liked the idea of _him_ calling _first_ as it fit some romantic notion.

"Okay," she said. "I'll call or text." Lizabeth hunted in her purse for her phone. Voices made her look up and realize that the number of people in the bar had doubled since she first arrived. "Maybe not here, though." She put her phone back.

"Let me know how it goes. _Especially_ if you two keep up the romance, warms my heart," said Mary with a sweet smile, which Lizabeth had never seen.

"I will," she agreed.

"Just fair warning," said Mary. She stopped playing and looked around at the occupants of the bar before catching Lizabeth's eyes. "Edgar has come back. The Spectre business guys were here last week, and he came for what appeared to be a business meeting. It may have been a one-off. Just wanted to let you know."

Lizabeth's jaw stiffened. She had no desire to see Ed if she could help it, but she also didn't wish to stop coming to see Mary or Jane. "I hope it was just a one-time thing and that he doesn't come back." Lizabeth stood. "Thanks, as always, for the advice."

"Any time," Mary remarked.

* * *

Once Kitty was fed and settled (having even let Lizabeth snuggle with her), she texted William. It was over forty-five minutes before she heard back from him.

_Filmed all day yesterday. Reviewing our footage with Caroline who's back. Can I call tomorrow?_

At least it was a response. William Darcy was a busy man and lived a hundred miles away. She was an hourly employee who had no responsibilities once she left work. That didn't mean her chest didn't crimp in disappointment.

_Yes. You know my hours_. She inserted a smiley face at the end, deleted it, put it back then finally texted him. William responded that he would call her after work the next day.

Lizabeth was faced with time before bed. Somehow, she didn't wish to read another romance novel. Instead, she did research about bit-coins. Electronic currency was confusing, and initially, she didn't find much helpful information.

Eventually, she stumbled across a website that explained it in simpler terms and allowed her to have a better grasp of how it worked. The reason those dozen or so men had set up businesses to _mine_ was because of the potential to earn free coins. If they used their computers to help process the blockchain that Mr. Johns had mentioned (which was the public record of all transactions from one wallet to another in a bit-coin system), they might earn a reward of bit-coins for helping.

What made her frown was reading how much computing power it took to process the 'blockchain' and how unlikely the effort met with any reward. While the software used was open source, and anyone could lend the proverbial hand to process transactions (in this case a powerful computer), the rewards were few. But maybe the type of men who came in to set up their fictitious companies was the sort who gambled on such a thing as winning against strong odds?

Rather than continuing on this research thread, Lizabeth ended up looking up movies that starred Charles Lee, found one, and watched part of it before falling asleep.

* * *

Distracted the next day, she wasn't paying attention when someone came in to register to vote, and they had to shout at her. Then a couple came to apply for a marriage license, and Lizabeth was heads-down at her desk; they resorted to calling, "Is anybody here?" Doug Morris hadn't been in that morning to note that her mind was elsewhere or to help out as he often did. But the day dragged as she could only think about talking to William that evening.

Lizabeth was excited. She liked him and was attracted to him. The idea of being with him was growing and taking hold, becoming more reality, less fiction. She hoped that also meant that she was willing to handle the ups and downs that went with any relationship, such things even occurred with friendships. She had gone to the bar to talk to Jane, who had walked away and didn't return. (And Lizabeth knew she could catch her another day.) Surely such flexibility with a friend could be shown in a relationship too?

Shirley came by after lunch to take one last look at the damage to the wall before making her estimate about the repairs. The city council meeting was in a week, but she was required to submit her findings by the end of the day.

"Lots going on, down in my building," she quipped. "I get the idea that two factions are brewing about some deals. Two council members are on one side, three on the other, and neither sees eye-to-eye."

"Deals? That sounds underhanded like they're taking money on the side!" Lizabeth exclaimed.

"No! No!" Shirley insisted. "But there are some business deals about land that seem to have everyone expressing an opinion. Some members want to approve one, and others want to see the other come to fruition. There are people in and out all the time speaking to them about the pros and cons of _their_ side. Almost like it was government or something!" She laughed heartily.

"Wow, I didn't realize we had such goings-on here in Merton. I thought it all ran smoothly. I guess even small-town governments have lobbyists and people with differing opinions. My friend Charlene's father was the town's last mayor before they changed the governing structure, but she's never talked about any issues he faced," said Lizabeth.

"Yeah, well, I don't think Mayor Lucas faced many issues," said Shirley. She was in her late thirties as much as Lizabeth could tell. Not as old as her parents, but she had probably been working for the city when Mr. Lucas was mayor. It seemed he wasn't the best at his job, perhaps that was why Merton changed its governing body.

The long day of work ended on a happier note as Judge Metcalfe came out to show Lizabeth new photos of Anthony, which she dutifully cooed over. She then powered down all the computers, turned out the lights, locked the doors, and headed home in anticipation of a phone call.

William Darcy didn't call until almost seven. Kitty was happy to see her, and Lizabeth fed and played with her cat, who playfully scolded her while they snuggled. She didn't risk attempting to make something to eat, but when it was far past six, she finally slapped some peanut butter on a slice of toast and devoured it.

In the ironic way things worked; she was walking down the hallway to use the bathroom when her phone rang. She had it in her pocket and answered it quickly.

"I apologize," William said straight away without even identifying himself. He must assume Lizabeth had his contact on her phone (she did). "My aunt called me an hour and a half ago. I just got her off the phone!" She could hear how frustrated he felt. Lizabeth was relieved that he hadn't put her off with some lame excuse. She walked to her room and crawled into bed.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No, well, yes. But not something for us to use our time over. But it does mean I have a great excuse to come to Merton since she lives in town."

"Not because I live here?" she pouted.

"And also because you're there," he said. Lizabeth thought he must have had a long day as he sounded tired, and it was a half-hearted response. He must also be exhausted if he had spent over an hour talking to his aunt; she wouldn't take offense to his not making _her_ his priority for visiting Merton.

"How did filming go?" Lizabeth prompted.

William talked about the long day of filming on Monday. He had a college buddy who worked at the Observatory who had allowed them to do rehearsals unobtrusively even though technically they weren't allowed. "So long as we didn't get in anyone's way, we could do it. Besides, people love Hollywood and actors, and we were able to capitalize on that. They love to be spectators and say that they saw a film in action, even if we were just checking out the angles of the shots, that sort of thing, when we were there before."

"And Caroline came back, so you then had to look at what you'd filmed together?" she asked.

"Yes," he explained that process, of viewing the dailies and hoping that nothing would need to be re-filmed.

"Wow! I just work eight to five and come home to burn my dinner every day," she lamented.

"I have been working for many more years than you have; I've learned how to juggle it all," he explained. There was a long silence as though neither knew where to direct their conversation. Lizabeth felt awkward redirecting it back to her, but he seemed so wiped out that he didn't have much more to say.

"Um, you remember my mining dilemma?" she finally began. He murmured in agreement. "I've figured out what it's about," she continued. "It's about bit-coins."

"Bit-coins? Electronic currency?" She could hear the surprise in his voice.

"Yes. I didn't realize that they _mined_ it, but that's what it's called." Lizabeth explained to William how mining for electronic currency worked. She also mentioned her viewpoint, that it was such a gamble for these men to be continually trying to compute these blockchains when their only reward was _potentially_ receiving a bit-coin for their efforts (and only if they were the one single miner who successfully calculated a transaction).

"That's interesting. I wonder why they are all based in Merton, though?" he asked.

"I do too. I should have asked Mr. Johns what currency he was mining, shouldn't I?" There was another silence. Lizabeth could sense how worn-out William was, and she still had to visit the bathroom. "I think we've had enough time on the phone, and I haven't burned my dinner yet. But can we talk tomorrow?"

"Yes." He paused. "I may make it up there…no, scratch that. I don't want to make you any promises. I think Friday is the better bet than trying to get up there tomorrow. Good night, Lizabeth."

"Night," she said and hung up.

* * *

Thursday was slow, and Charlene canceled their lunch. But Lizabeth had expected that. Her friend indicated that the dentist's office was unusually busy, though Lizabeth thought that Charlene didn't want to discuss the weekend. They would be out in public, and it wasn't like they could discuss the more exciting details of Saturday night. But her friend didn't want to risk having to discuss _not_ returning to the hotel room. Lizabeth weathered a long and boring day at work.

It was almost time to close up when the office phone rang. "Hi, it's William."

"Hi!" Lizabeth's voice was bright at the unexpected call.

"I have a favor, which is why I'm calling you at work. Can you look up some property for me?" he asked.

She frowned even though he couldn't see her response. "Um. No. Not while I'm on the clock," she explained. "I only have fifty minutes left in my day, but I have work to do. I can do your search for you during lunch tomorrow."

"Ah, I see." There was another of those pauses. She wished she could see him; their conversations on the phone hadn't been easy. Lizabeth attempted to allow for the fact that she wasn't one for talking on the phone, and that they both seemed distracted. Her generation wasn't one that used their phones for conversation. He continued, "If you could, that would be great. Download the files for me on a thumbdrive?"

"I can. It makes me recall how I first met you," she remarked.

"Yeah. I wasn't kind." Again silence whispered into her ear, not William's voice. "I'm sorry I was."

"Okay," Lizabeth responded. His apology seemed half-hearted. "Give me the details, and I will have the information for you tomorrow." He rattled off information which she dutifully wrote down, said goodbye, and hung up.

She had heard of the Goulding property. Most everyone who lived in town knew of it. Merton was a city developed along certain landscapes. There was a freeway that ran precisely east-west through town; another ran at about a forty-five-degree angle and formed what was mostly considered the western edge of town. While there had been some development on the _other_ side of that freeway in the past twenty years, anything built _there_ were the nether-lands, and usually referred to as West Merton.

But Merton proper sprawled east and north, especially in the past forty years. In the north-east corner of the city sat an undeveloped section of land, smack dab in the middle of all that growth—Old Man Goulding's property. Lizabeth knew about it because she lived on the eastern edge of town and often drove on a perimeter road, Meadow, to a huge shopping center just beyond it.

The property was ugly, with a chain length fence covered with barbed wire on top of it. Weeds grew inside and were only occasionally trimmed. Residents near it often complained that it was a fire hazard. There had been construction there years before. But the shells of those doomed buildings had been left behind to rust.

While she didn't look up the property details while on the clock, Lizabeth did some background research for William once home and called her aunt. Chrissie Gardiner had been born in the town and had a lot to share about Old Man William Goulding and his family tragedy, though the story was decades old.

Mr. Goulding was still living, though Aunt Chrissie wasn't sure where he lived or if he still lived in town. But his tragic story was that he and his only son had gotten into a huge fight. The son had left, and Old Man Goulding had shut out the world ever since. Mr. Goulding had shut down all work on the property, hired someone to build a fence around the place, and then hired a lawyer to deal with lawsuits over his breach of contract.

Chrissie didn't tell Lizabeth anything new; she had heard the story before. What she didn't know was that there had been two daughters who hadn't figured into the tale. Lizabeth wondered what had become of _them_. Aunt Chrissie didn't know any names or any real dates, other than it had been between thirty or forty years in the past, so the son (assuming he had been in his twenties at the time), must be at least fifty.

But now, Old Man Goulding was selling after multiple people had tried to get him to do _just that_ since closing up the place. Private developers had their hands in bringing it back to life.

When William called, Lizabeth mentioned her small bit of research about Old Man Goulding. He indicated that he'd heard it before, though he thought there had only been one sister. He hoped that the property records would be helpful and would include the son or children's names.

"Why this sudden interest in the Goulding property?" she asked.

"It seems that the Merton City Council is considering approving the development. My aunt had development approved on her property at the January council meeting. _Now_ there's talk about developing both, but I fear that may be too much for the city. She fears she will lose out," he explained.

"Oh! But does it matter since they already approved _her land_?" Lizabeth asked.

"It was conditional, and she didn't move as fast as she should with follow-up steps," he murmured. She heard him yawn. They discussed their days for a few minutes, but then hung up. It occurred to her that maybe he also didn't like talking on the phone. Maybe he was on his all day, or perhaps he was one of many people she knew who expressed disgust for using a cell phone for _talking_.

After she hung up, Lizabeth thought about having a relationship with a man who lived hundreds of miles away and didn't like to talk on the phone. Was it possible to be together?

* * *

Her kitchen was woefully under-stocked, but Lizabeth packed a lunch so she could stay in on Friday. She was one minute late, but Doug Morris wasn't there to complain. Lizabeth wondered if she should worry about her daily companion who wasn't a co-worker. Perhaps he had gotten an office finally, but maybe something had happened in his personal life, or he was sick?

After she locked the doors at noon, she did a title search (even before she ate), and looked at the Goulding property. The results were simple; it was currently owned by a trust—the William K. Goulding and David W. Goulding Trust. Searching back through the years, it had been owned by William L. Goulding, and William B. Goulding and William A. Goulding, who purchased it before California was even a state. The Goulding men seemed to enjoy long lifespans. She supposed Old Man Goulding had had _enough_ of there being Williams in a long line of Williams that he had named his son _David_.

Lizabeth finally ate her lunch in the break room, and with the few minutes she had left did a few searches on the internet about the family. She discovered that there were several men with that name. William _Golding_, the novelist, kept being suggested by her search engine as the actual person she wanted, and Lizabeth had to insist that, no, she didn't want information about _him_.

Having middle initials helped a little, but she didn't have much time. There were a lot of David Gouldings. She figured that she and her own William…then she stopped and thought that William Darcy wasn't hers, she was merely distinguishing between the man she was researching, and the man she was anticipating having dinner with that evening.

* * *

A/N: today's WTF: this site won't let me use the word "bit-coin" edit 4/5, I had it spelled out with spaces, STILL doesn't pass sniff test! if all mashed together, so I had to hyphenate it as bit-coin, which is still readable. (Hopefully I caught all of the changes)

But I am thankful I do one last read-through after I upload just to check. Otherwise you'all would have been "what _are_ you talking about?" when you kept reading COIN instead of BIT-COIN.

We've had a tremendous amount of rain in CA in the past two weeks which normally makes the news, but it also impinges on my long walks. Happy to hear most of you are doing well. Looking like June until we're released now?

My beta has been doing other things, so I will poke so she reads through the next week's stories so I can get them up. We have Ed and Mrs. B and Darcy all making appearances.


	19. Chapter 19

Her afternoon dragged on, but twenty minutes before five (when she was considering closing the doors early), Andrea walked in and asked to see the Judge.

"He sometimes leaves at 4:30," Lizabeth warned.

"He's expecting me. Troy has been after me for these." Andrea had papers rolled up into a tube. The Judge said to send her in when Lizabeth inquired. Because the woman had followed right at her heels, she couldn't be brave and ask why the woman was there since Andrea was only a foot behind her.

She wondered if Andrea would stay with Troy Metcalfe past five, and Lizabeth might need to wait to leave. But the Judge had keys as well. So at 4:55, she started to power everything down, and at 5:00 p.m. exactly, Lizabeth locked the recording office front doors.

She changed clothes and threw on her favorite dress, a slinky navy-blue number. Then she attempted make-up while Kitty sat in the bathroom doorway and chatted with her. The orange kitten was talkative as Dr. Robinson had asserted, and frequently scolded her (almost as much as her mother did).

William had said he would call or text when he was close, so she kept her phone near. Lizabeth wasn't finished in the bathroom when a text notification sounded. He said he was in town, and asked where she was.

_Home_, she responded.

_Okay to come by?_

_Yes,_ she texted with eager fingers.

Kitty followed her around the house as she finished getting dressed. Lizabeth turned around quickly once and tripped over the cat, which made her change her mind about what shoes to wear (and to shed the high heels).

"Damn you," she scolded. Kitty scolded back as much as she got. When the doorbell rang, her heart leaped, and she ran to answer it. Lizabeth opened it just a crack. "Hi."

"Hi?" William was confused.

"Kitty has been trying to escape ever since I got back from Los Angeles," she explained. Lizabeth turned to see where the cat was. For all that she had been following her for the last half hour, Kitty was nowhere to be seen. She opened the door wider. "Get in!"

"Okay," he chuckled. Lizabeth clicked the door shut. They turned to each other. "Hi," he said again. This time his voice was an octave lower and sounded pleased. His hands reached for her.

"Hi." She felt shy and encouraged at the same time. Their arms slipped around each other, and they kissed.

"Ready to go?" he asked, though he didn't let go of her; he merely pulled back to look down.

"Yes. Did you have a place in mind?"

"Not particularly since I don't live here. Did you fancy something?"

"Chinese," she answered.

"Perfect." He leaned over to kiss her again. She had just brushed her teeth, so she must taste of mint, but William didn't mind. He tasted of coffee; Lizabeth thought he must have had some on the trip up. She grabbed her things, locked the door, and wondered a little about why the cat was hiding.

Lizabeth asked about his drive up. William didn't have much to say. She explained that she had done the property searches, but felt that they weren't as useful as he expected them to be. She also gave directions to her favorite Chinese restaurant, which was located near her favorite shopping center.

"I wanted to look at the Goulding property tomorrow if that's okay," he asked.

"We'll drive right past it if we take the long route," she remarked.

He turned to her, despite driving. "Do you mind stopping?"

"No. It's on the way." She directed him through some residential streets so that they came out facing the property and told William to pull over as parking wasn't allowed on the main road next to the chain-length fence. It also had 'Keep Out' and 'No Trespassing' signs posted along it at regular intervals. But there was a small padlocked gate right across from where they parked.

The cars zipping by on the road were bunched together, preventing them from getting across, but suddenly the street cleared. William grabbed her hand, and they sprinted across to the gate. The chain-link fence wasn't gray, but brown with rust. The shapes were no longer diamonds but pulled and squashed into indistinct forms, especially around the opening. A heavy chain with a padlock clipped the two ends together, but a good-sized hole had been tugged open (or cut) so that a small person might squeeze through. It provided an excellent viewing portal.

The dry, yellow grass inside the property was waist-high in some places, though there were open areas that might have been where the road went through. It was broken gravel now, but it allowed the pair to look at a structure that was still standing. A metal roof covered an area without walls and held an assortment of items underneath that were impossible to identify. Neither could figure out if the walls had caved in, or if the piles were abandoned machinery left behind when Mr. Goulding had shut down development and padlocked the property.

"It's old and ugly," Lizabeth commented. "I wonder how easy it would be to develop?"

"It's in a better location for services—sewer, electrical, and water—than my aunt's property out west. Plus, it was in the _process_ of being developed, even if it was years ago," he said. "I think it has more appeal. It fits neatly, too, into the way the town has historically been developed. I fear my aunt has fierce competition."

They stared at the gray and brown structure that was visible despite the weeds. Lizabeth wondered if kids snuck in and played there.

"Beth!" yelled a voice that echoed around them. She twirled around and saw Edgar. He had pulled his car off of the road on the other side of the street, but quickly turned it around, and pulled to a halt in front of the gate. Ed got out, and a man in the passenger seat got out as well.

"What are you doing hanging out around an abandoned building?" Edgar asked, coming right up to her. His hand reached out as though to grab her, but he stopped himself when his eyes swung over to William. "Who are you?"

"William Darcy." He didn't hold his hand out to shake hands but merely nodded. "You're Ed Stone; Lizabeth's ex."

Edgar bristled. He dropped his arm as he looked William over closely. "Have you muscled in on my territory? She's on the rebound from me, did you know? I'm the best thing that ever happened to her. You will only ever be a paltry second. Let me give you some advice: women on the rebound are never worth it. They turn into sluts."

"I have no desire to engage with you." William's response was crisp.

Ed's friend put a hand on his arm. "Ed! Leave it be. Let's go meet the gang for dinner." He pulled him back towards the car.

"Leave off, Josef!" Edgar shook off his friend's touch and moved towards Lizabeth again. She stood her ground as he closed the gap between them.

"You grasping, unappreciative whore! I devoted myself to you, and for what? You couldn't even return the engagement ring to me in person, or mail it back to _me_. Do you realize how mortifying it was to my mother, who _adored you_ and welcomed you from the first moment as a daughter, to have to sign for a package containing a returned engagement ring? How could you send it to my parents with the signature required? That was cruel! I think my mother cried for a week!" Ed moved even closer, but Lizabeth put a hand out to his chest to stop him.

"I never knew where you lived." She spoke almost through clenched teeth as she pushed against his chest. "You would never take me home, remember? I now figure it was because you feared I might find evidence that you were bringing other women home the rest of the week. So don't give me any crap about disloyalty or being unloving. There was nothing between us. You didn't treat me like a person, just a bit to add to some collection." Lizabeth stopped, though her breath came a little more forcefully than she would have liked. Edgar Stone wasn't worth being angry about.

"Ready for dinner?" William asked. He moved closer so that their arms were touching.

"Yes," she answered, though she didn't look over. She stared at Ed, worried about walking or turning away until he was gone.

"Has she opened her legs for you? I found her as cold as a corpse," Edgar sneered.

"I think you need to apologize and leave, in that order," said William.

Edgar careened over in William's direction. Lizabeth wondered if he and his friend hadn't been drinking already. "You threatening me?"

"No," Willaim answered. "I am telling you to apologize to Lizabeth. Then I want you to leave." Ed cocked a fist to take a punch, but William kicked a long leg out, hooked it behind Edgar's ankle and yanked. Ed landed on his backside.

"Ready?" William caught Lizabeth's eye.

"Yes," she nodded, glancing at Ed. "I'm hungry. Let's go." She moved to the edge of the road and took in the traffic. William came to stand next to her; she could feel his presence, though he didn't put an arm around her.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome. Go!" His hand clasped her upper arm and pulled. The two of them ran back across the road. Lizabeth glanced over: Edgar was brushing off the dust as both he and Josef opened car doors.

William clicked to unlock his car; then he put a hand on the car's rooftop. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Thank you," she replied. "It isn't your fault. He's my ex."

"Don't even claim that," William asserted.

"No," Lizabeth insisted. "I want to be the type of person who learns from her mistakes. I don't want to erase him from my history or my memory. I want to save it. I can do better; I think I _have_ done better," she said as she gazed at him.

"Thanks," William replied.

There was a brief period of silence as he pulled out onto the main street, but then they began talking as if the incident with Edgar hadn't happened, or rather, they weren't going to let it spoil their evening.

* * *

The Chinese place was in a huge shopping center that had a small department store, a multitude of specialty shops, and many restaurants. The restaurant was taking names and indicated it would be a twenty-minute wait. There wasn't a place to wait inside for their table, but it wasn't so cold that they couldn't step outside.

"Shall we walk around?" he asked.

"Might as well," she agreed.

"William! Lizabeth!" They turned to look into the parking lot and saw Ryan Fitzwilliam slamming the door on a van.

"Ryan!" William called and walked over. Lizabeth followed a step behind as he held out his hand to his cousin. "How are you doing?"

"Well." There was a pause then Ryan said. "Well enough. What are you doing in town?"

"A couple of reasons," he replied.

"How are you, Lizabeth?" Ryan asked.

"Just fine," she answered.

"Hanging out with this bum?" He pointed to his cousin.

"Having dinner." There was an awkward pause as William looked between them and as he considered and rejected inviting his cousin to join them for dinner.

"I have plans of my own," Ryan spoke up before William could say anything. "Meeting a couple of buddies from my deployment days. I always show up early to make sure I get parking." The smile on his face was a little forced.

"That's how we met. We were both early at the Metcalfe's party," Lizabeth commented.

"Yes. That was a lovely afternoon," Ryan agreed. He opened his mouth as though he was going to ask another question but then shut it. "Where are you eating?"

"Chinese place," William answered.

"Ah, well. Seafood," Ryan gestured with his head. "I better go make sure that they can accommodate the chair. You staying at Catherine's?"

William nodded. "I already dropped my stuff there. She's fit to be tied about her latest land sale."

"Good luck with advising her. Good to see you, Lizabeth," he nodded.

"Bye." They all said at once and parted.

"What a coincidence to run into your cousin," Lizabeth remarked as they turned to head back to their restaurant.

"I often don't see him when I'm up here. It's usually to deal with my aunt's issues. She and Ryan don't get along." William didn't elaborate, and Lizabeth didn't pursue the topic. They only waited two minutes to be seated once back at the restaurant and playfully argued over the merits of various dishes. Lizabeth asked if he could cook any better than the chefs in the back could.

"Probably," he quipped, looking at her over the top of his menu. His eyes twinkled in merriment, and she laughed.

"Isn't it pleasant to have someone _else_ cook for you sometimes?" she asserted.

"Yes," he conceded. "But sometimes you want something to do at the end of the day to distract you from work."

"I get it. It's why I read at night before I go to bed or snuggle with the cat. Not that my work is so demanding that I have to decompress from a long, hard day like you do," she said.

"In the future, you may have a tougher job and find you need something to distract you from the stresses of work," William asserted.

"Right now, I only have the stresses of my mother!" Lizabeth laughed. He looked as if he wasn't sure to laugh or not.

Their meal was decent, but Lizabeth thought he didn't find it the best Chinese he'd ever eaten. What was better was their conversation. She found herself far more engaged and less in her head. She wasn't thinking about the next activity on their to-do list but was focused on helping William think of plots for a second season for _Bella Montaña _and, in turn, listening to advice on potential jobs she might consider in future.

"But, I have a library degree!" Lizabeth protested when William suggested she look into the film industry.

"Really! Why are you working in a city office?"

"_County_, not city. And it's related, libraries are bastions of information, and I work at a record office. I am keeping track of information," she explained. William made a noise that indicated he understood. "Though I have to say, I didn't have a concrete idea of the _sort_ of library I wanted to work in when I went to school. Looking back, I might just have gotten a job at some university library, and continued to hang around college students."

"Never wanting to grow up?" he hinted.

"Maybe." Lizabeth paused. "I never thought about it that way. I think you're right. I haven't been ambitious; things just sort of fell into my lap or happened to me. But now I'm thinking more about my future and where I want to go and what I want to do, now that I'm on my own two feet." She smiled ruefully. "You know the cliché."

William nodded. "I think you'll go far."

* * *

Lizabeth felt warm and happy as he drove her home. They made elaborate plans to spend the entire day together, the next day, and William quizzed her about the possibility of picking her up for breakfast. She insisted on her right to sleep in on Saturdays, so they settled on brunch as he pulled into her apartment complex. He parked in a guest spot and got out, saying he would walk her to the door.

William's arm snaked around her waist as they strolled towards her place, and he stopped before they mounted the stairs to kiss her, holding her close as he did. "I'll see you soon."

"Come say hi to Kitty," Lizabeth grinned.

William followed her up the stairs, though he grumbled, "I don't know why I'm doing this. I'm not sure I like your cat."

"But she's so cute!" she insisted as she turned the key in the lock. The door was cracked open briefly, barely enough to let a mouse through, but the cat shot out and ran down the stairs before Lizabeth could grab her or even cry out.

Both of them turned to follow the cat, Lizabeth crying for her to come back. There wasn't really anywhere for Kitty to hide, but she shot off down a walkway and turned a corner to disappear. The cat had run towards the center of the apartment complex with Lizabeth and William in pursuit. As the couple turned the corner, they spied the wild-eyed orange cat out in the open; it was an uninteresting area of lawn. Lizabeth tried to sneak up on her, but Kitty ran off, across the grass to crash into some carefully trimmed bushes nestled up against a building.

"You go on the other side," she pointed. William crept to the end of the landscaping and peered behind them but didn't spy the cat. Lizabeth tried her end with no luck. Kitty suddenly leaped out from the middle and raced back across the lawn.

It was a game of cat and mouse as Kitty played the mouse. She sought refuge underneath bushes (which weren't densely planted, and made Lizabeth thankful that there were few places for her cat to hide). She and William were cats stalking after her, coming _close_ to catching Kitty, but never close _enough_. Luckily, the cat was scared (or cautious enough) that she didn't venture into the parking lot. Mostly, she raced around the grass.

Twenty minutes later, they were still chasing the cat around, never able to corner her even though she never seemed to tire of the game. William thought that she wasn't a cat so much as _part dog_. Kitty finally raced around the corner of one building, then a second, and ran back up the stairs to the apartment door. The cat ran inside.

Lizabeth hadn't realized that she had left the door ajar when the cat had escaped. At least she had pulled the keys out of the lock. She and William ran up the stairs and slammed the door behind them, both out of breath. They stared at each other on the safe side of the door.

"Thank you," she said between gasps. "I'm sorry." Her hands were on her hips as she attempted to catch her breath.

William had a hand on his head, but he was also panting after that last sprint. "No problem," he responded.

She was thankful that the cat had chosen to go home. The sun had set, and the fading light had been making Lizabeth more and more panicked. Blood rushed through her veins; her heart was pumping frantically. She looked at William and stepped closer; he put out a hand. He was wearing a suit jacket, and her hands moved inside. Lizabeth ran them around his waist to the back and pulled him towards her. He obliged and took another step closer, leaning over to kiss her.

This wasn't like the farewell kiss at the bottom of the stairs. It was fueled by almost a half-hour of heat from their sprinting around. That heat was now directed between them and she clung to him, kissing him back with an equal ardor as their tongues tasted each other. Her hands ran all over him, attempting to imprint as much of him as she could. His hands were equally as busy and moved down the length of her back to her bottom, pressing her up against his body. She worked her fingers over his shoulders and pushed his jacket off, and then stepped back to shrug out of her coat. Both items landed on the couch.

"I want you to stay," Lizabeth said, clasping him around his neck and pulling him down for another kiss that didn't allow him for an answer.

When they broke off, his hands came up to stroke her hair, and then tugged at the clip she had used to keep it out of her face. One hand gathered up a handful, then doubled it over in his hand; the other traced a finger down her nose and the line of her cheekbone. "You are so beautiful," he whispered before leaning in to kiss her. His lips sucked and nipped at hers before moving to her neck.

"William," Lizabeth gasped as she clung on, urgent in her desire. She needed to see him, and her grip loosened as her eyes sought his. Shyness nudged forward, but she didn't give it too much headway. Lizabeth took a step backward and tugged, keeping her arm tightly wound around him as she pulled him down the hallway. She didn't know where the cat was and hoped that Kitty wasn't in her room as she shut the door.

Her hand paused on the knob, then she dared to run it under his shirt, which lay open at the throat. Beyond seeking the touch of his skin, she didn't know how to move forward and hoped he would take the lead. William grabbed her around the waist and maneuvered her closer to the bed. One hand moved down her thigh to the hem of her skirt and touched her skin. She gasped at the feel of his warm, broad hands there. His other hand moved to her bottom and pressed her against him. He shivered. Lizabeth was overwhelmed with the heat that emanated off him and by the pleasure of his touch.

"This is the first time I've done this." She leaned back, braving eye contact. His hands loosened their rock-hard grip as he considered her confession.

"Do you want to stop, or just, _cuddle_?" he asked. His voice was so deep that she almost couldn't hear him.

"No." Her head shake was minute. "I wanted you to know."

"Thank you." He sounded gruff. His hands came up to frame her cheeks as his lips closed over hers, his tongue was delicate as it swirled and danced, and as thumbs stroked her cheekbones. Suddenly William pulled back and threw his hands around Lizabeth to crush her to his chest for a hug. The heat wafting from him was intense, and the rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek was mesmerizing, both soothing and exhilarating.

His arms fell away, but William took her hand and pulled her closer to the side of the bed where he pulled back the covers to expose the sheets. Then his hands were on her again as he worked to pull her dress zipper down. Then he turned away a little and feigned interest in his shirt cuffs and undid buttons, untucking his shirt. Lizabeth kicked off her shoes and let the dress slide down her body. While William was peeling off his shirt, she jumped into bed and pulled the sheet over her half-naked form. It allowed her to admire him wearing just his trousers.

"Light?" He pointed to the overhead light glaring down at them. Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. He walked to the wall switch and turned it off. Sheer curtains on the single window covered vertical blinds, but it provided ambient light. Her eyes were still adjusting to the change as he shed the rest of his clothing, letting it puddle on the floor before he slipped into bed.

She could feel his warmth as he slid near. One arm reached out to cradle her neck, the other pulled her close and held her without seeking her curves or attempting to divest Lizabeth of her remaining clothing. It allowed her to relax in his arms, and she braved placing a hand on his chest. He groaned. His free hand traced a path down her arm to her chest and cupped a breast. William's fingers wormed beneath the tight edge of her bra, stretching its line and rubbed against a nipple. She gasped.

He leaned towards her; his fingers circled her nipple. The tightness of her bra pressed his hand against her breast and her eyes closed as pleasure swam through her body. She could feel his sex hard and insistent against her thigh. A hand slid the bra strap off of her shoulder and freed her breast from its restraint, then he moved his head and took a nipple in his mouth. Lizabeth arched her back and moaned. Her hand came up to his head; she wasn't sure if she wanted to hold him there or push him away. When he pulled back, she was surprised how unevenly she was breathing. William pulled down the second bra strap and attacked her other breast with even more vigor, and she cried even louder.

His hands snaked down her stomach, and sent vibrations of desire all around her body before they centered in on her sex with its lacy covering, rubbing gently as she squirmed. Lizabeth was sure her cheeks were flushed with both embarrassment and pleasure. His hand then moved underneath to touch her directly, and she gave voice to feelings that were almost unbearable—but also new and surprising and extremely pleasurable.

William shifted his position and tugged her panties off. He was between her legs and ran his hands up them, sending ripples of desire across her skin as he loomed over and his hands snaked behind her to unhook her bra. He drew it away before pressing himself against her, their bare chests meeting. The sensation of his weight made her heady, almost as if she was drunk, as she ran hands over his muscular arms.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered. He leaned out of bed and hunted through his clothes to pull a small package out of his wallet before throwing it back down on the ground. Lizabeth thought embarrassment was her overriding emotion just then as she listened to the crinkle of the package. It was too dark to see his movements as he rolled the condom on. Then he snuggled back down against her; his presence a comfort before his hands moved beneath her to tilt up her hips and spread her legs.

She had her hands on his arms; William's face was indistinct in the darkness. One of his hands let go of her hips and came up to touch her, and Lizabeth called out as his fingers stroked her sex. She could feel his fingers stroking through the wetness. Her sex was so sensitive that she squirmed and moaned at his touch, then jumped when she felt a finger slide inside her. But she was not so overpowered by the sensations in her body to _not_ notice his own intense breathing.

His hands stopped, and then she felt his sex pressing against her, continuous and slow. Lizabeth's eyes were open and stared up at him, but his were closed. Her ears heard how ragged his breathing came. The sensations of their joining were overriding and chased everything away. She felt him inch inside of her, stretching her as he went. It was uncomfortable and she held her breath as he pushed forward until his hips were seated against hers. She was aware of parts of him: his hips and thighs and legs all pressed against each of her parts. Her hips strained as her legs were forced wider. She could tell he had one arm braced up near her shoulder; his other was tucked next to her waist, both arms holding him up off of her.

Lizabeth curved her pelvis up in response to him being inside her, and William let out a guttural cry, calling out her name. He pulled out and pushed back in. She breathed out and thought of finely tuned machinery. The feeling of him inside was still uncomfortable; she felt stretched, almost overextended as though bursting. But the more he moved, the more pleasure built inside. It swirled through her torso and limbs, and she wondered how she could bear such elation.

In and out he moved, but increasingly more swiftly with each thrust. Her hands let go of his arms and moved up to twine around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Their chests pressed together though it was almost too hot to be that close. He moaned as their lips touched, his stride off, but she pulled even harder at him. There was something fulfilling about his weight against her body and breasts.

William's hands moved under her, half embrace, half supporting him as his thrusts became frenetic. Lizabeth felt happy and content and thrilled as the heat of his body stoked the furnace inside. His lips pulled back from hers as his hands tightened around her waist before she heard him groan loud and long and his movements stilled.

He moaned as one hand moved up her back to her neck to cradle it in his hand. She could feel his heart beating against her chest as they lay together, hot and heavy. Lizabeth could hear his breathing in her ear. She felt deliriously high and dizzy like she had ridden a roller coaster and tightened her grip around his neck. He placed a kiss underneath her ear, but then pushed himself up to disentangle their bodies before curling on his side and pulling her against him.

"Oh, Lizabeth," he said. His voice was so deep that it rumbled deep within his chest. He tightened his grip. "Lizabeth," he said again though nothing else followed as his breathing evened out and he fell asleep.

She remained awake while the passions inside of her cooled, and she listened to his breathing. Lizabeth thought she had never been happier. When William got up to use the bathroom, it woke her up, and she waited for him to return. He carefully slid back underneath the sheets, mindful of not waking her, remaining an inch or so away, but she slid over so that their bodies touched. He reached for her then, putting an arm under her neck and tilting his body to snuggle against her.

* * *

A/N: got this out later than planned, but had to go out hunting & gathering (grocery store) as we were out of almost everything with the college students home. Then I watched Cuomo's presser for some odd reason, go figure.

Stay well everyone. It feels like dark times in some ways, and I am keeping my head by focusing only on the day.

I have finally started writing, so that WWII spy thriller has been coming along, but only 500-1000 pages a day. I don't know when I will finish, so I don't know when I will post. But LOTS of twists on the P&P story. The Elizabeth here is all book, works in a government office, opinionated, efficient & clashes with Darcy who's a bit of a mystery. Bingley is an RAF pilot. Jane is a secretary and the Bennet family lives in London, not Herfordshire. I've written chapters 1 & 2 and am working on the final one, then will fill in the gaps.

Also, my beta did extraordinary things and read the entire story yesterday. So I should be able to keep posting ever 2nd day or so.


	20. Chapter 20

They woke up early in the morning, still pressed together. Sunlight filtered in despite the blinds being closed, but the sheer yet opaque window covering didn't keep out the light. It hadn't been an issue before because Lizabeth was an early riser and at work by 8:00 a.m most mornings.

"Hi," she said, embarrassed but pleased.

"Good morning," William greeted her. His hands began to roam over her body, shaping a breast, and pinching a nipple up to stand. "Did you sleep okay? I didn't snore, did I?"

"No," she answered softly.

He leaned over, so he was partially lying on her and began kissing her shoulder as his hand played a little more insistently with her breast. He moved his leg up over hers, pressing it against her sex. "It's early yet."

"Yes," she agreed. The same thrills which he had elicited the night before began to course through her body.

"You are beautiful." William pushed himself up on an elbow to look down at her. The hand on her breast came up to stroke her hair. Lizabeth's eyes twinkled; the satisfaction of having him near shone up at him. He leaned over and pressed a kiss on her lips, warm and gentle and loving. His tongue slipped between hers, touching then retreating, teasing her while he continued to stroke her hair. Her tongue struck out boldly to swirl around the end of his before her lips pulled and sucked at the end of his tongue, not wanting to let it go. He groaned at the back of his throat.

His hand moved back down to a breast; his fingertips were delicate, barely coming into contact with her skin, and sent iterations of chills that electrified her. The movements of her tongue stilled as she focused on the intoxication of his touch. His fingers twirled more sharply around the tip of her breast before continuing their journey, lower, stopping to circle the point of her hip. Lizabeth squirmed. His delicate touch moved down the top of her legs, and lightly danced across them to her knee before he started to caress the inside of her thigh, with a firmer and more calculated touch.

"Oh!" she cried, not able to keep still and swallowing a mouthful of air. Her back curved as she involuntarily thrust her breasts high. William leaned over to take a nipple in his mouth, sucking on it. The hand on her leg moved up towards her sex, parting her folds and rubbing in precisely the spot she needed. She could feel his hardness against her thigh as his mouth devoured her nipple and as his fingers twirled and rubbed, causing pleasure to swirl from her sex up to her womb. It was the same sensations she had experienced the night before that were powering through her, building in intensity, lifting her spirits again. But something was different.

She felt that layers were being created, or rather, pulled away, like a fabric that was slowly fraying under pressure until a sudden exhilaration burst from her womb to her breasts, and out through her fingers and toes; one of such ecstasy that she cried. Tears came to the edges of her eyes as she vocalized her pleasure. She almost sounded as though she were weeping, but if she was, Lizabeth was crying from sheer happiness, despite the dusting of tears in her eyes.

William held her while her breathing settled, and her limbs relaxed; she hadn't realized that her arms and legs had locked up, nor that she had closed her eyes. But she blinked and then wrapped her arms around his neck to kiss him over and over. The kisses moved from playful to hot within seconds.

William's hands became busy again, stroking her everywhere before he leaned back on his elbow. "Do you have a condom?"

She knew her entire body blushed, not just her face. "No," she whispered, looking away before glancing back at him. "You don't…"

"I only have one in my wallet. While I hoped we might get to this point, my overnight bag is at my aunt's house. I didn't think I would be spending the night, last night," he explained. He didn't seem embarrassed by the subject for which she was grateful.

"I've never gotten to this point." Her voice was barely audible. "I guess I should have been prepared about…prevention." She blushed again and couldn't say any more.

His hands still stroked her body, but a hip was not as erotic as other spots. William pressed kisses on the point of her shoulder. All of his movements stilled as he flopped to his back. "Damn sunlight."

"I never thought of getting darker curtains," Lizabeth murmured.

He mumbled something indistinct before flipping the covers back. Her eyes widened as she watched his naked body in all its glory stroll around the bed to the window. He tugged on the cords, tightening the blinds and shuttering them against the light. It darkened more than she imagined it would; she hadn't realized how open they were. Lizabeth's eyes never strayed from William's form. She had never seen a naked man before, certainly not one in such an exaggerated state.

He crawled back under the covers with the room more in darkness and put a hand out for her. She could tell that his breathing was still heightened, though his desire was finally cooling. They curled up together and fell back asleep.

* * *

The phone on the nightstand rang shrilly and woke her up. It wasn't yet 8:30 a.m. It kept ringing, persistent, and nagging. She knew who it was. When the ringing stopped, Lizabeth yawned and stretched her arms up above her head. The musical notification of her cell phone sounded out in the front room next.

"Someone wants to get a hold of you," said William. He lay on his back and turned his head on the pillow to look at her before he, in turn, yawned.

"My mother," she explained. The landline started ringing again. Lizabeth looked over at him. "I'm going to answer it and get her off ASAP. Otherwise, she'll keep calling or do something like have my uncle do a well-check on me." The look William gave her wasn't encouraging, and her stomach tightened; she picked up the phone.

"At last!" cried her mother. "What is going on? Why didn't you answer the phone the first time?"

"Mom, it's Saturday morning. I was asleep," she began.

"You're an ungrateful child. I've waited all week to hear more details about your trip to Los Angeles. I still can't believe you would consider going there, and why you couldn't Tell Me All and call last Sunday, I Will Never Know! So did you have a good time? What did you see? How is your friend Charlene doing?"

"Mom, Mom," Lizabeth grumbled. "It's early."

"Don't give me any lip, Lizabeth Todd Bennet. I'm your mother. I deserve your respect!"

"Mom, you've talked a lot about respect and manners and insisted that I use them, and I want you to know that I've listened," said Lizabeth.

"Good girl," said Dawn. She seemed on the point of speaking, but Lizabeth carried on.

"One thing you emphasized were manners over the phone, and the times you should call someone. You said never to make a call before 9:00 a.m. or after 9 p.m. It's too early, it's Saturday, and I'm going back to sleep."

"Don't you hang up on me!" screamed her mother.

"Please use better manners and call at a better time," said Lizabeth and hung up the phone. Her heart pounded as she turned to look at her companion. She realized that she was sitting up in bed; her naked upper body exposed. "That was unprecedented."

"I gather," William said as he pushed himself up to sit next to her. "Your mother…"

"You can say anything you like about her."

"I think I could use her in a production, though some viewers would think she's too over-the-top to be believed," said William.

"Feel free," she said, leaning over to put her head on his shoulder. He wound his arm around her to pull her closer. They shuffled down in bed for a few minutes.

"We could lie here, but that would just be dangerous," he said. They were staring up at the ceiling. She agreed. "How about going out to breakfast?"

"The toothbrush that you bought before is still here," she remarked.

"Great." He paused. "Though we should maybe stop at the drug store and purchase something _else_ as well." William turned his head to look at her. Lizabeth knew she blushed again as she gazed back at him.

"Okay."

* * *

They ate breakfast first. The restaurant was called Sally's and was the sort that served breakfast twenty-four hours a day. Lizabeth couldn't help but steal glances at William and overlay that with images of him standing naked in front of her window that morning. Their conversation was relaxed and comfortable. At one point, he asked her about her name.

"How did you get your name, Lizabeth Todd? Why not Elizabeth?"

"Well, _Mom_," she began. "She couldn't have her only precious daughter have a _plain_ name; it had to be unusual." Lizabeth wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I've never liked it as I have to repeat myself and half the time people get it wrong and call me Elizabeth anyway." She wrinkled her nose again.

"Ever consider changing it?"

"Mom would disinherit me." She shook her head.

"And that would be a bad thing?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe not," she agreed.

"Why Todd?"

"That's my Dad's name. Guess he had such a desire to pass on his name that he insisted I be named for him." She frowned. "You know, I've never really asked _why_, and Dad never talks." Lizabeth paused. "He can't get a word in edgewise!" She began giggling; William joined in.

"Lizabeth Todd…Elizabeth Todd." He looked at her. "That sounds like a great name. It would be a good stage name."

"A stage name?"

"Yes, if you ever decided to act," he said as he swallowed the last of his coffee.

"I've never considered acting." she frowned.

"I think the camera would love you." There was something about the way he said that sentence which sent tremors of excitement through her body; the same sort that his hands had sent so early that morning.

William wanted to look at the Goulding property again, though he said that he didn't want to get out and walk around. He only wanted to eyeball it as they drove around its perimeter, which was five miles around. (It was a massive piece of land, 960 acres.) The property was entirely fenced. Some sections in the north had been farmed.

"I have filming sites to look at as well," he said. "It's all business for me today. Some for my work, some for my aunt. You don't mind?" She indicated that she didn't.

One trip involved driving up into the foothills to look at some government land. William said he could easily get a permit to film there, but the location was uninteresting, the trees sparse, and the waterline (a reservoir) dreary. Currently, the land was still green, but the grass would soon dry, and everything would become the color of "parmesan or shortbread," William quipped.

"You really do like to cook," she responded. He agreed. They were sidetracked for most of the drive talking about interests that weren't related to work.

* * *

They had lunch downtown. That was Lizabeth's territory, and she was self-conscious about being with a man (especially with his having spent the night). Part of her hoped she wouldn't see anyone she knew, part wished someone saw her, as if to acknowledge a new side of her, but she ran into no one.

There were two more scouting trips to houses in town, then a drive to look at the parcel of land that his aunt was selling. William turned off of one road, which ran east-west through the city, onto Field avenue and parked his car. Like the Goulding property, it was currently being farmed.

"Everything from here, west of Field Avenue to Nabors is being sold," William explained. "It's a little odd that the city considered the purchase since it's on the wrong side of where development usually happens."

"The _nether_ side," Lizabeth joked. He laughed with her then explained how his cousin Anne had chosen the name of the development.

"There are two farms that have long-term leases which the city would have to honor. They want to do luxury housing with half of it, which seems ridiculous. I can't imagine people wanting to fork over good money for three or four-acre lots to live _here_," he mused. "But eighty acres is slated to become a commercial tech park. And that is in competition with the Goulding property."

"How big is _that_ tech park supposed to be?"

"320 acres," he answered.

"Would the city develop both?" she asked.

"_Currently_, it appears that they are considering just that. But I can't think that they have the money for it. Usually, developers outlay their own money to develop the land; it's a gamble, but they also reap the profits. I wonder which real estate developer is backing which project?" William mused.

Lizabeth thought that Edgar was involved with others in helping to bring the Goulding project to fruition but didn't want to bring up her ex-boyfriend. "Shouldn't that be a matter of public record, and we can look it up?"

"Yes," he said. "Come on, want to help me do some research?"

She agreed to help. His eyes turned to take in her, and Lizabeth saw how William smiled when he looked at her. It wasn't that evaluative glance that men gave women when they sized them up; there was fondness in his eyes, and somehow, her being with him made him content—seemed to have fulfilled some expectation or desire. William held out his hand to her, and she took it. The hand was brought up to his lips before he drew her back to the car.

He drove down Field Avenue and turned down a road that ran along the river. When the city had been founded, the river had been an essential means of transportation. Eventually, the road pulled away from the river (or did the river meander from the road?), and he pulled into a driveway with ten-foot-high gates and pressed a button on an intercom system to announce himself. The gates swung open.

The house was red brick with a porch around all its sides. It was three stories tall; the home's flat roof was covered with blue stone shingles. The windows were arched at the top, even the tiny attic ones. Overall, it was a pretty picture.

Once they had driven up a sweeping, curved drive to the main doors, Lizabeth amended her ideas. The stone foundation was covered with green and gray mold and was hidden behind indifferently trimmed shrubs. The stone steps up to the porch were dirty and worn with age. (Just how did one clean stone?) The red brick was discolored, and the paint was peeling in the sections that were more exposed to the elements.

The door was opened quickly to his knock by a woman who looked to be about her mother's age. "Hello, William."

"Ellie, this is Lizabeth," said William as they walked inside. "Lizabeth, this is Ellie Dawson." She nodded at the woman, wondering what her function was.

"Catherine is in the back parlor," said Ellie, closing the door.

William led Lizabeth through an entrance hall with black and white tile (that she found almost blinding), and down a hallway crammed with pictures in ornate frames. The house had been decorated with silver, black, and white as its dominant colors, and Lizabeth found it cold and uninviting.

They turned a corner into a more extended hallway. At the end, the pair entered a room with no door in its threshold. It had a wide curved entrance, which perhaps mimicked the windows. A woman sat reading a magazine on an ornate little couch. It was the type with carved animal feet. The wood had been stained black though the upholstery was a silvery green. All of the wood in the room was the same off-black; the curtains were black, and the darkness was relieved only by soft green upholstery and silver-gray wallpaper. It was dark and uninviting, like the hallway.

"Aunt Catherine, I've returned," William announced when the woman looked up from her magazine.

"Are you staying for dinner? We didn't know when to expect you. I don't run a hotel for errant nephews, you know!" She slapped her magazine against her thigh.

"I appreciate you letting me park here." He paused. "This is Lizabeth. Lizabeth Bennet." William turned to smile at her.

"Hello," Lizabeth said to William's aunt. The aunt's eyes briefly glanced her way before staring back at William.

"We'll take ourselves out for dinner. I wanted to park in Uncle Lewis' study to do a little research," he explained.

Lizabeth noticed an instant change in the aunt's demeanor. It wasn't just a frown but a sudden stiffness of her entire body. "You make assumptions as to how you may use my house!"

"It is research on your behalf," he argued in return. "And it has a desk and seating." Lizabeth noticed Catherine stiffen even more.

"That was Lewis' special place." She stared at William. "Do not touch; I repeat, Do Not Touch anything of his, but yes, you may use his office." Catherine slapped the magazine against her leg again.

"Thank you," he replied and looked at Lizabeth. "This way." They traced their way back down the hallway to where it turned back to the front and opened a door. The study was in the opposite corner from Catherine's parlor. It, too, was dark with paneling on the walls, but without the relief of wallpaper. The paneling was covered with a multitude of framed pictures and photographs.

"It's like a snapshot from the past," she said as William closed the door behind her.

"It was purchased from a family who had decorated it in the 50s or 60s. I should probably know the difference, but I don't." The dominant color here was gold, as there was an oriental rug on the floor and a couch with worn-looking upholstery. "Have a seat; I'll get my laptop and notes."

William disappeared, and Lizabeth spent her time looking at the photographs, attempting to find family likenesses, but failing. She recognized one of Ryan Fitzwilliam both in a somber and formal military portrait, but also another in ordinary attire before his accident, standing next to a young woman. It must have been at a party as they both had a beer in their hands.

She turned when she heard the door open; he had a stiff businessman-like briefcase with him along with a laptop bag. He put the items on the floor next to the door after he shut and locked it.

"Why'd you lock the door?" she asked.

"So we aren't disturbed," he answered. There was a mischievous grin on his face as William caught her in his arms.

"Not disturbed?" Lizabeth wound her arms around his waist. Their lips came together for an intense and hot kiss, which left both of them heady.

"Not disturbed," William assured her as he came up for air. "I think we should try out the couch." His gaze moved from her eyes to the dark yellow couch. Lizabeth looked at the long, formal couch and couldn't imagine making love on it; she shook her head slightly.

Not letting go of her, he maneuvered the two of them towards it and pulled her down beside him. Hands began stroking her hair and neck while he ran kisses on her cheek and shoulder. Her hands played across his chest, admiring his slim, muscular build. They stretched themselves out on the couch. Lizabeth briefly noticed that the stuffing was uneven beneath her back as William's weight pressed her even further against its surface.

Her hands began untucking his shirt from his trousers. She was wondering if he only wore suits, and did he even own a pair of jeans? When she found hers being worked down her hips, she lifted them to facilitate their removal. William sat up to take his jacket off, threw it on the floor, and pounced down to seize her mouth. His hands roamed through her hair as their kisses heightened their desire. A small part of her was embarrassed to be half-naked on a couch without blankets or sheets to hide beneath. But longing over-rode everything else as they kissed. Half of their clothes came off; they left their upper garments on.

"The box is in the car," Lizabeth shyly cautioned when William's pants hit the floor. (They had made a stop at the drugstore). Her eyes weren't gazing up into his eyes.

"I ran to my kit when I got my laptop," he explained, putting a hand down to his coat and pulling a condom out of a pocket. That necessity was taken care of immediately.

Lizabeth knew she blushed, but she was also feeling hot and flushed and excited as he positioned himself. William was slow entering her again, and the sensations were a repeat of the night before, a buildup of something—like a craving for food which made her want to dig her fingernails into him. But that afternoon, she found what she was seeking, and a wave of intense pleasure hit her again like it had that morning under his skillful fingers. She called out a low moan, which William stifled with a kiss. His thrusts intensified until he too moaned against her shoulder, attempting to stifle his own sounds of pleasure.

After several minutes of bliss, he propped himself up, staring down at Lizabeth as he whispered. "Wow! You are so good to make love to!" before his lips were on her, a sweet and soft kiss rather than a hungry one. After all, they were satiated.

* * *

They quickly pulled their clothes back on; Lizabeth ran her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it. William unlocked the door, went out, and came back with a tray. On it was a jug of iced tea and glasses, and they settled down to work. He had a tablet in his briefcase, which he gave her to use while he did searches on his laptop.

The paperwork about his aunt's business dealings lay about them on his uncle's old desk. He explained how his aunt sold off sections of land to help fund her lifestyle. "But she regularly exceeds her income, and isn't good about managing her money or mitigating risks."

"That sounds so business-y," Lizabeth said. "But if that means she spends money on frivolous things instead of maintaining her house, I get it."

"It does," he nodded. "While there's furniture here and in her parlor, there are some rooms which have been stripped bare of the antiques because she sold them. This used to be a show-place when my uncle lived."

Lizabeth considered that point while they both looked for background information about the people funding the development on both his aunt's land and with the Goulding property.

The door opened, and a woman walked in; she was petite and thin, and Lizabeth's first impression was of a person of frailty. She reminded Lizabeth of a professor she had once had, one who had been far past the age of retirement and yet kept coming to campus to teach. This woman had those sort of nondescript features where her hair and skin seemed the same color, or maybe they were colorless, or it was because nothing about her stood out. As she walked in, she looked intently at the couple, and Lizabeth noticed her eyes were a light brown. They were almost predator-like, golden-brown as though a wolf's (though given her small figure, Lizabeth amended that to a fox).

"Mother said William was here and brought a new assistant." She wasn't looking at William but at Lizabeth. "You know, he's always hauling assistants around with him."

Lizabeth wondered if she intended to give offense, the underlying insult being that he brought them with him because he was sleeping with them. Part of her suddenly realized how little she knew about his background, and did she even know how old he was? Maybe he _did_ sleep with his assistants? She looked at him, both to ascertain whether he was that type, but also to hear his response.

"Lizabeth, this is my cousin, Anne Deburg. Anne, this is my _friend_," he emphasized the word, "Lizabeth Bennet. She lives in town and is an information expert, so she's helping me with Catherine's paperwork."

None of that information seemed to surprise Anne or throw her off her insolence.

"A _friend_!" Anne emphasized the word. "Mom said you're not staying for dinner?"

"No. I dropped my things here when I drove up since Catherine asked me to try to make sure the city council doesn't set aside the Field Avenue development and fixate more on Goulding's," he explained.

"I hate all of this." Anne turned suddenly and walked over to a set of French doors that only had a sheer covering on them. "I hate what she's done with all of her money, all of Dad's money, everything Grandpa left for us!" She turned dramatically to look back at William.

"You know I feel the same way," he placated.

Anne suddenly pasted a smile on her face. Lizabeth had never felt that expression was so apt as seeing it used in real-time on this woman's face. There was nothing sincere about it, but the smile that was turned towards Lizabeth was entirely a false one as she said, "are you certain you can't stay for dinner?"

She faltered in her answer because she and William hadn't discussed specific plans, but he spoke up. "We have reservations for dinner," William asserted.

"Okay then," said Anne sharply. The smile faded, and she swung her eyes towards her cousin. "Found out anything of interest?"

"Not exactly," he answered. "But I would say the city has a preference for Goulding's property if they had to choose."

"Why?" her response was quick and direct.

"Because of the location. You know Merton historically has never liked to develop west of town."

"We're the wrong side of town, aren't we?" Anne quipped in a disdainful voice.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Enjoy your dinner." Anne's eyes swung back to Lizabeth.

"Thank you," said Lizabeth. "Good to meet you." Anne left. Lizabeth waited for a few heartbeats. "She's…forthright."

"Anne says whatever pops in her mind and never worries about giving offense. Exactly like her mother. Though…" his face changed a little, "she's a little more calculating than my aunt. To be calculating you have to think beyond the present moment, and I don't think that Aunt Catherine can do that. It's all about her current pleasurable pursuit."

"So, we have dinner reservations?" Lizabeth asked, changing the subject. He nodded. "I think jeans and a t-shirt aren't the best things to wear. I don't suppose you could take me home to change? I also think _maybe_ I need another shower."

"Sounds good," he said. "Why don't we quit now? I don't have much of a head for this. I'd rather spend more time with you."

"Okay." They quickly packed up, though finding Catherine Deburg to say goodbye to took time as she was hiding outside in the cabana on a lounge, napping. Catherine lectured William about the necessity of staying until the city council meeting on Wednesday night to ensure that nothing happened with the vote about her property.

"I'll do my best," he assured her. "I am presenting one of many different sides of what the city should do when it comes to expanding its borders and its coffers."

When Lizabeth said goodbye, Catherine Deburg said nothing in return as if she wasn't even there.

* * *

A/N: it's Wednesday in case you've lost track. I have. Had to look up both the date and the day of the week.

Hang in there. Pick up the phone and call a friend. I've found it helps A LOT.


	21. Chapter 21

They talked all the way to her apartment, but Lizabeth stopped when she got to the landing with her key hovering near the lock. "We don't want a repeat of last night."

William remarked, "I think it ended on a positive note."

"I don't want to have to chase Kitty for a half-hour first. Can you make sure to block the bottom of the door?" He nodded, and she unlocked the door. The cat wasn't right there with her nose stuck at the entrance, attempting to sneak out. Lizabeth quickly closed the door behind them. As soon as the latch clicked in place, their arms slipped around each other, their lips finding each other's.

William pulled back, and ran his hands over her hair and down her cheek, "I fear you will be sore by the time I leave."

Her cheek rose beneath his hand as she smiled. "I am a little," she whispered. "This is all new and exciting and a little awkward."

She froze, looking at him. "Is that a vacuum cleaner?" He nodded as their hands fell. "It's too loud to be my neighbor. And _where_ _is_ the cat?"

"I wonder too," William agreed.

Lizabeth walked down the hall; the sounds of the vacuum cleaner got louder. She stopped to stare into her spare bedroom. Her mother was vacuuming the floor with an intense look on her face. The bed had been stripped; all the sheets were piled on top. Lizabeth blinked. There were too many in the pile. She suspected that the bed in her own room had been stripped as well.

Then she heard the unmistakable sound of the cat howling at the top of her lungs.

"Mother!" she cried. Mrs. Bennet jumped and turned around.

"Lizabeth! Where _have_ you been?" Dawn cried in return as she turned off the vacuum cleaner. "Your house is a pigsty: you are a little piggy!"

"What are you doing here? This is _not_ your house!" she yelled in return.

"You were so ungrateful on the phone this morning that I had to come and give you a piece of my mind—but you weren't _here_! So I had to go to Ned's to get the spare key. But he and Chrissie were gone because Scott was playing baseball. Really, you wretched child, can you think of no one but yourself? _All_ the driving I've had to do today!" Water leaked from her eyes, but Lizabeth hesitated to consider them tears.

"Where's the cat?" Lizabeth ducked back into the hallway and moved quickly to her room. A scan around the principal parts didn't reveal the cat. But there was no mistaking the wailing coming from inside the closet. Delicately, Lizabeth opened the door, expecting the cat to zip out, but to her horror, she found Kitty encased in a plastic pet carrier pushed in the far back corner of her walk-in closet. She leaned over, opened the carrier door, and the cat zoomed out, heading for the bed. Lizabeth followed and ducked down to gaze at her terrified cat under the bed. Fury enveloped her. She stood up to find William beside her.

Dawn stood in the bedroom doorway. "Who is that?" she asked, pointing at William.

"How _dare_ you traumatize my cat! Don't you realize she's been through too much already—she was locked in a deposit bin overnight! She hates confined spaces!" Lizabeth shouted.

"Do you realize that I had to _drive myself_ here today? It's the Final Four! Both Gonzaga and Oregon are playing—and your father _refused_ to drive me—he's just as ungrateful as you. What a terrible day I've had!" Dawn moaned in return.

"I don't _care_ about your day. This is _my_ house. Where's the key?" Lizabeth held out her hand.

Dawn looked taken aback. "I…I don't know what I did with it." She jutted her chin out before looking to the side.

"Mom, give me the spare key, and then kindly leave my house," she demanded.

"You wouldn't dare!" shouted her mother.

"The key!" Lizabeth shook the hand in front of her. "Give me the damn key."

"But I bought food to make you din-din. I was going to cook for you, and we could spend time together," Mrs. Bennet explained.

Lizabeth dropped her arm but took a step closer. "Your allergies wouldn't let you stay long. What were you going to do about _that_?" Lizabeth's eyes narrowed.

"Take the cat to the pound," Dawn admitted. "I was cleaning and dusting to get rid of the cat hair."

"Out!" Lizabeth shouted, moving forward to stand right in front of her mother. "Out! Get out of my house!" She pointed past her mother's shoulder down the hall.

Her mother flinched when Lizabeth's arm came up, and a mixture of emotions crossed her face. Tears leaked from her eyes. Lizabeth thought these tears were honest and not crocodile. "But I'm your mother!"

"Who needs a life besides being _interfering_ and _infuriating_. Please leave my house and leave the spare key."

"But Lizabeth, _baby_," pleaded her mother.

"I've had enough of you not respecting me and my rights and my boundaries!" She pushed past her mother to storm down the hallway. Her mother's things were hung over a chair in the kitchen, and she first dug her hands through jacket pockets before boldly opening Dawn's purse. The red lanyard with her spare key lay on top, and she shoved it into her pocket.

"Lizabeth!" scolded her mother. Her daughter picked up the purse and the jacket and turned to shove them into Mrs. Bennet's hands who instinctively clasped them to her bosom. Lizabeth walked to the front door and stood with her hand on the doorknob. Dawn glared at her daughter with a furtiveness which suggested that underneath she was terrified about this change to her plans.

"You can't ask your mother to leave. It's rude," Mrs. Bennet cried with those fake or real tears on her cheeks. "How can you do this to me?"

"How can you do this to your daughter?" Lizabeth asserted.

"Just see if I ever speak to you again!" Mrs. Bennet declared marching across the room towards the door. Her daughter opened it for her; Dawn walked through and disappeared.

She closed the door, stumbled and turned to see William standing at the end of the hallway, having watched this mother/daughter drama play out. Lizabeth was such a whirlwind of emotions that she couldn't, just then, add in how she felt about him (or how she also felt about his witnessing that scene). She looked away. Moments later, she found a hand take hers to guide her to the couch before he went to peek at the refrigerator.

She didn't cry, though she sat rubbing her chin repeatedly as the scene played over and over in her mind. It made her stomach knot up tight. Lizabeth was sure that she wouldn't be able to eat anything and didn't want to go out to dinner anymore. She just wanted to stay home, wear pajamas, and keep an eye on Kitty.

William was kneeling before her. "Why don't you go take a long shower?"

Her heavy, sad eyes looked into his brown ones which looked kindly back at her. "Okay, but…"

"Don't worry about dinner; I have it all arranged." His eyes crinkled up. She put a hand out to touch his hair; not remembering doing that before. "Off you go." He stood up, having taken hold of her hands and hauled her to her feet.

She checked on Kitty, who remained huddled under the bed and refused to come out, so Lizabeth got into the shower. Dinner was waiting for her when she came back wearing a loose-fitting dress topped with a well-worn sweater.

"What about our reservations?" Lizabeth asked as William indicated a place at the small dining table.

"I canceled and decided to cook instead. Courtesy of your mother—we have ingredients." He smiled briefly as though he wasn't certain about bringing up the topic of Mrs. Bennet's home invasion.

"I wonder what she intended to make," Lizabeth asked.

"No idea, and I have to say it was difficult navigating your kitchen, what with the one knife and four spices. I had to go knock on your neighbor's door to borrow some!" He turned back to the stove to start plating the food.

"You borrowed food?" she cried.

"No, just a few spices. Your mother bought beef and asparagus, and I discovered that you had some rice, so I made stir-fry. But you don't have soy sauce!" He glared at her in mock surprise. "Mrs. Annesley downstairs was quite happy to give me some, and some powdered ginger."

"I've never met any of my neighbors!" Lizabeth blushed.

"Now you have an in; you'll have to go thank her," he remarked.

The food was delicious. They didn't avoid the subject of her mother—Lizabeth was brave and tackled it (having broken down and cried in the shower). William spoke more about his mother. She had cared for him as most mothers did. Lizabeth wondered aloud that she had such an impossible one.

"You were brave today," he said. "You're coming into your own." They washed up then watched a movie, though not genuinely paying attention; more often, other subjects came up.

"I feel like I'm so small and innocent," she stopped. "Innocent meaning inexperienced. I knew I was coddled, and I liked being privileged; I'll admit _that_. But I'm slowly realizing that I like seeking knowledge _and_ experience as a way of learning about the world. But my launching out on my own has been stunted, hasn't it? Twenty-five and just getting on my feet."

"I think you've done well with the hand you've been dealt," said William.

"But I lean on people so much," she mused. Currently, she was lying snuggled up against him under a blanket.

"Life is far better when you have people to lean on." His arm wrapped around her shoulder, and he pulled her onto his lap. "Why don't we turn off what we're not watching and go to bed?" He kissed a cheek, her chin, and nibbled down her neck.

"I need to put sheets back on the bed," Lizabeth sighed as her thoughts drifted back, yet again to the scene with her mother.

William was determined to distract her. "Come, let's change the sheets and then mess them up." He gathered her up into his arms and surprised Lizabeth by standing up with her still nestled against his chest. He carried her to the room and deposited her on the bed, with both of them laughing the entire length of the hallway. There was a short wrestling match before Lizabeth got up to find her spare set of sheets, and the bed was made. Then William proved himself a man of his word as they messed them up again in short order.

* * *

No phone call woke them up the next morning. They slept late, having exhausted themselves the night before (though the encounter with Mrs. Bennet had been draining and added to Lizabeth's exhaustion). William questioned whether she wasn't truly sore, and she had to admit that she was. There was an aching down there, a _memory_ of their activity, but her body seemed ready to make love all over again that morning. They cuddled for a while, a gentleness that Lizabeth appreciated before she decided to rise and shower. Then they went to the hotel to have brunch for want of another choice.

"William!" called a voice, and the two turned to see Charles Lee sitting with Jane Sweet at a two-seater table. The pair walked over. "Lizabeth!" Charles called, his voice over-cheerful. She looked at Jane, who was smiling, but also seemed upset. Her friend had a fork in her hand, which she flipped before flipping it over again methodically as she listened to the others.

"What are you doing up here?" William asked as he shook hands with Charles.

"Seeing Jane," the actor answered, turning to beam his bright white teeth at Jane. She answered him with an equally bright grin.

"Don't you have that commercial to shoot tomorrow?" William asked.

"Yes. I'll leave with sufficient time to make it home." Charles looked from his friend to Lizabeth. "Seems you're up here for the same reason?" His eyebrows shot up.

"My aunt has more business matters that she wants me to handle, same as back in February," William explained. Charles squinted as though attempting to ascertain the _truth_ behind that claim. Wrinkles appeared on his forehead as though he didn't believe it (or at least that it was the _only_ reason that William Darcy was in Merton).

Lizabeth looked at Jane, who continued her methodical fork turning. "How are you doing?"

"Been a little crazier here, the bar gets rowdy when there are sports games are on," she answered.

"I know, the Final Four games were yesterday. But now it's down to two. But they won't play the last game until tomorrow night. I imagine it will be crazy here again?" Lizabeth asked, and Jane nodded. The two men looked at her with odd expressions. "My dad loves sports; I can't help noting the schedule _even_ if I _have_ moved out of the house."

"Did you want to sit with us?" Charles asked.

"You look like you're done, and we've not even gone through the lines yet," said William.

"Besides, there's no room," Lizabeth added. She wanted more time with William while she had it, though felt guilty that something was going on with Jane. She made a note to check in with her friend. They parted ways, filled plates with food, and found a table.

"Is something going on there?" she eventually asked, unable to get over the nervousness she sensed emanating from Jane.

"I noticed there was some tension," William agreed. "But I don't _know_ of any issues. Charles and I haven't seen each other lately. He doesn't _always_ work for me and _does_ have other gigs. But I understand that he's been coming up here a lot, while Jane never goes down to see him. Maybe that's the issue?"

"Maybe." Lizabeth nibbled more while she considered the pair's situation. "I guess long-distance relationships have extra challenges, don't they?" She looked across the table at her companion. "What's going on with _us_?"

"I'd like to keep seeing you," he said, putting his utensils down. "Being apart can make it difficult, yes. But not impossible. Maybe that will work in our favor, somehow."

"How?" she asked.

"I'm not exactly sure, but I usually work eighty hours a week, so I'm not free most nights. I don't think I am date material, and maybe you have expectations that we should spend a lot more time together since you're…"

"…so inexperienced," she answered. "I'm so innocent. You're probably right." Suddenly it was Lizabeth who was twirling her fork. "Not that I like that. Not being able to see you midweek." She gave William a half-smile.

"I'm sure that weekends with you will make my weekdays much more productive." He snorted. "Or drag on."

"Hey, you two." They turned to see Ryan guiding his wheelchair towards them with a plate of food on his lap.

"Twice in one weekend has to be a record," William remarked.

"We used to see much more of each other once upon a time," Ryan quipped.

"You were overseas for many years, far too long."

"Far too far," Ryan agreed. He wheeled up to their table and put his plate down. "So you two seeing each other? This is the second time I've seen you together in two days." Ryan's eyes flitted from his cousin to Lizabeth's. She felt undressed, somehow, as he stared at her while he waited for an answer.

"Yes," she answered. "I ran into William when I went to Los Angeles for a trip."

"A trip." Ryan seemed to repeat everything. "I haven't been on a trip away from Merton for a long time."

"I've invited you down any number of times," William pointed out.

"Did you come up to see Lizabeth? Anne said you're here dealing with Catherine's bullshit."

"Both," William admitted as his brows came together.

"You should have gone out with me, Lizabeth." Ryan quipped. His eyes continued to stare into hers. She felt them bore into her as emotion took hold of him; she couldn't account for his anger, however. She looked away, breaking the gaze, to stare at William. He was staring in confusion at his cousin.

"I didn't know I had competition from you," said William. His eyes flickered around his cousin's face. Ryan appeared to be working on getting himself under control, though he didn't stop staring at Lizabeth.

"Asked her out ages ago. Turned me down," Ryan commented.

"I had a boyfriend at the time," she pointed out.

"I think we can all agree that Edgar Stone is an…idiot." Ryan flourished his hand on the last word. "Well, I know when I'm not wanted. I'll find a different seat." He grabbed his plate, placed it on his lap, spun his chair around, and left.

Lizabeth looked at William for help. "I don't know," he began. "I don't know what's up with Ryan or why he was acting like that. I've never seen him behave like that. I can assume he's jealous, but…" William's voice trailed off. "I can't explain it."

"He's a little aggressive," she asserted. "But how can he be jealous?"

"Ryan's not had many breaks in life," William faltered then gave her a small smile. "I don't think this is the best place to talk." They finished the remaining bites of food and left.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is so short that I'm putting it up now. Will post Chapter 22 on Saturday, then on Monday we will start Volume 3 and the rollercoaster ride to the finish. I estimate we will be done May 1st.


	22. Chapter 22

William felt that the chill which had seized hold of him with Ryan's appearance wasn't going to dissipate easily. Lizabeth said she thought his cousin was 'aggressive,' which was true. But Ryan's anger had been almost maniacal when he stared at her. Willaim had worried for a moment that his cousin would explode; his temper bursting into speech and fists. It had happened before, though not for many years.

Ryan Fitzwilliam had been wounded in the fall of 2010 in a counter-insurgent mission in Kandahar. His recovery had been slow, and he had remained angry about the loss of his limbs, often using words and whatever body parts that worked to express his pain and displeasure about the horrors of war. But Ryan seemed to have overcome his losses in recent years, and worked to become an advocate for other vets. William explained this to Lizabeth after they left the hotel.

"I can't imagine," was all she could say when he finished his truncated summary.

"I've often wanted to tell his story, both the highs and the lows. But he always puts me off." William slapped his steering wheel. "I thought it might be good for others to see what he has done, though I fear Ryan doesn't think he's done much at all. Or he feels less than himself. Am I making sense?"

"Yes. You are. I get you both. He doesn't feel like Ryan anymore, the Ryan of before, so he's angry. And you want to show that the Ryan of now is still the cousin you value."

"I thought you said you were inexperienced?" William couldn't help but say. He was in the turn lane onto River Road now that they had crossed the river. Once upon a time, most of the land south of that divider had been Fitzwilliam property, part of the family's estate before his grandfather had broken it up. William turned to smile at Lizabeth.

"I'm a smart cookie," she joked. "And I understand how sometimes we are reluctant to change, or maybe we like who we were _before_. Sometimes we're forced to change, and we don't like the new person." There was something different about her voice that made him glance at her even though he was driving again. The scene with her mother the previous evening had been quite nerve-racking and dramatic.

Such an encounter _had_ to have affected her even if she had joked the rest of the evening that it had been a long time coming, and she didn't regret it. That didn't mean it wasn't difficult. Most of the fights William had with his parents had been on a smaller scale, so the recovery had been more straightforward. He smiled, thinking that he had been there to help; he'd never been in such a position with a friend or lover before.

"And this next place? This is the last remaining land from your family's original estate?" Lizabeth asked.

"Yes. It was once a land grant, even before California became a state, thousands of acres. I think there's about thirty left, and a house. It was all once called Pemberley. Supposedly my great-great-grandmother got the name from a book, but there's a run-down, dilapidated house that Anne, Ryan, and I jointly own," William explained.

"You're not fooling me. I can tell from your voice that adore it," she accused with amusement in her voice. "Why doesn't anyone live there?"

"Anne lives with Catherine. It doesn't have accommodations for Ryan. I'm in L.A."

"Why not rent it?" she asked.

"We have an estate manager for the upkeep, but I fear its amenities wouldn't appeal. Too old-fashioned."

"Why not use it for filming?" Lizabeth asked next.

"Too run down," he said as he stopped at another light.

"But maybe that's what is missing from your script. It's _already_ run down," she said. "You've talked about your storyline and its being one about the loss of property. But why not _show_ it?"

He hadn't considered that. For the beginning season, he and Caroline had the idea of showing all the glamor and richness of the 1920s before ugliness claimed the family. But maybe they needed to begin with the cracks already showing?

The light turned, and William drove through the intersection and pulled near the iron gates of his family's ancestral home. There was no intercom or automated system for opening them. He hadn't alerted Mr. Parks that he was coming, so the way was barred. He got out to unlock and open the gates before getting back into the car and driving on.

"It's lovely," she commented. The driveway was lined with hundred-year-old trees. It curved just as the cover of the trees gave way and revealed the house.

Pemberley House was built in the late Victorian Queen Anne style with three stories, a round turret, and a huge wrap-around porch. The bottom floor was made entirely of stone, though the upper floors were clapboard. Its color scheme was neutral, and it hadn't been done-over in an elaborate three or four-way color scheme of contrasting colors as many restored houses were painted. The three cousins could barely afford its upkeep, let alone a fancy paint job. At least William had been able to persuade his cousins to put money into the maintenance.

He let himself in with a key, waiting for Lizabeth to proceed him before he switched on the lights. The entranceway had beautifully stained wood, but he was pleased when he heard her gasp as she stepped inside to gaze at the staircase. It always impressed with its striking entwined balustrades. The stained glass window on the half-landing twinkled at them (even if darkened with dust). There was no furniture, no curtains or decorations, but the bones of the place still showed how beautiful the house was.

"You _own_ this house?" Lizabeth cried.

"Part of it. I share it with my cousins, as I explained."

"Where does that door lead?" she asked. Four steps rose from the hall before the stairs turned and hugged the wall running up towards that stained glass window on the half-landing. But at the top of the fourth step was a small landing where a door beckoned. It had dull glass in its frame.

"The study, come and look," William invited, walking past her, and up the steps. He opened the door. Lizabeth followed him. The study's ceilings were shorter, eight feet, not the ten feet elsewhere, but the room was cozy and intimate with bay windows and the floral wallpaper of a long-ago era, which added and didn't detract from its charm.

"Wow! It's not exactly what I think of as a _study_ with shelves for books and dark paneling," she said.

"Tastes change over the years. I believe my great-grandfather used it as a study since it was at the heart of the house, but then my _grandfather_ used another room for his, more in keeping with your imagination. My grandmother may have used it as a parlor. I don't know for sure, but I remember the room when I visited," he explained.

It was a beautiful room and yet sad being devoid of furniture. Their words echoed off the walls and the dull glass. It was a reminder that no one lived there, but William could recall the room filled with furniture and feelings. He remembered how his mother had often sat there when they had visited (though he had been eager to see his cousins and play).

The sound of a text notification startled both of them as they stared around the room, lost in thought. Lizabeth pulled the phone out of her back pocket. She made a noise. "My aunt," she said, looking from the phone screen over to him. "I usually have dinner with them on Sundays. Let me text her that I'm not coming."

William appreciated that she was bolder now and didn't even ask his advice about what to do or whether they would be spending the rest of the day together. She texted a few words and then tucked the phone in her pocket. He invited her to see some of the better rooms. "The kitchen is terrible and hasn't been updated since the 1960s. I won't show you that, but come." He held out his hand, which she took; her other hand came out to stop him. Lizabeth's arms wound around his waist as she stood on tiptoes to kiss him. She was growing bold.

His hand was under her shirt when her phone rang, which quieted the activity of their interest and lips. Lizabeth sighed and pulled away from his embrace to pull out her phone. She frowned, silenced the call without answering it before looking up at him. "It's my mother," she announced.

"Shall we?" William indicated the door.

"Yes," she nodded. They hadn't reached the door when the phone started ringing again; she glanced again at the caller I.D. "Mom." The phone went back into her pocket. It rang a third time as they were walking up the stairs.

"Should you call her?" he asked as they stopped on the half-landing.

"No, _absolutely_ not. I'm not giving in to guilt or whatever she wants to dish out. I suspect she's at my aunt and uncle's house and was lying in wait to scold me about last night. The fact that I'm not coming to dinner has thrown her off her plans," she explained.

They made it to the top of the stairs when the phone rang for the fourth time. "Put it on silence," he suggested. Lizabeth did as they stood at the top of the landing, which was a space large enough to be a room of its own.

There was a small wooden bench (any furniture with cloth had been removed). William steered her to it and pulled her down to kiss her, distracting her only long enough until the vibrations of her phone made her pull back to look at him with pursed lips.

"Don't do it," he said.

"I'm not," she answered, pulling out her phone. "But if you don't mind, I think I will call my Dad."

William was surprised; she hadn't spoken much about her father. Lizabeth had shared a _lot_ about the mother, and now he had experienced Mrs. Bennet firsthand. "Sure. I'll give you some space."

"Hello?" Lizabeth could hear the sounds of baseball in the background. She knew that while it was the Final Four weekend, the FINAL game wasn't going to be played until Monday night (such was being Todd Bennet's daughter). But it was also baseball season and opening day. It was miraculous that her father had picked up the phone.

"Dad, it's Lizabeth." Perhaps _that_ was unnecessary as he didn't have any other children. "Um, Mom."

"Is she still at your place? I expected her home last night," he remarked. She could tell that he was _watching_ a game and not listening to it on the radio, which was probably better for a conversation as he couldn't listen to her _and_ a baseball game if he had been following it on the radio. But his eyes could follow the action while he gave her half a mind.

"No. I believe she's at Chrissie and Ned's place. We sort of had a big fight last night. I may have thrown her out," she explained.

"Really? Good for you, honey," said her father.

"You think it's okay for me to throw her out of my apartment?" Lizabeth exclaimed.

"She's been holding onto the apron strings for far too long. I refused to drive her or condone this trip." He paused as a play was made; she could hear the cheers and commentary in the background. "I think it's good that you've finally gotten out on your own. But Dawn's been going crazy with you gone. I guess I hadn't realized how much her identity was invested in…" There was another pause while he watched a play. "How much she was invested in being your mother; she has no other way to define herself. I hope you understand that and have a little sympathy for her."

"Are you trying to guilt me into…"

Her father interrupted her. "No guilt. She gives both of us enough guilt that I don't want to heap any more on your plate. For now, stand your ground. I imagine it will be tough and mean I will be on the receiving end of her tongue. But, I'm proud of you, honey." Lizabeth thought she could hear her father smile. Her brain conjured up an image of his face. It made her insides warm.

"She keeps calling and won't stop," Lizabeth explained. There had been the continual evidence of that on the line as she spoke to her father.

"While she can be very focused and hard-headed, she _will_ give up. Stay strong," said Todd Bennet. Another play distracted him, but Lizabeth could tell it was the end of an inning. Her father sounded a little more focused. "I doubt that Ned wants her to stay another night. She has to get herself home and will want to drive while it's light. That means she needs to get going soon. Stay strong," he repeated. "She'll give up soon and come home. I'll see what I can't do to keep her out of your hair."

"Dad…I don't know what I would do without you," Lizabeth gushed. "This talk has meant a lot."

"You're welcome, honey. Bye," he said.

"Bye," she whispered, more overcome with feelings than she anticipated. "Bye." She hung up.

She sat for a few minutes, staring down at the phone in her hand, but in her mind's eye, that image of her father remained. When she imagined her family, she realized how much her mother took precedence. Unfairly, Lizabeth let Dawn take center stage, but Todd Bennet had also had a hand in raising her. Maybe the better parts of her had been her father's influence. She knew life wasn't black or white, though right then, Lizabeth was happy to sing her father's praises.

Dawn finally stopped the incessant dialing, and Lizabeth tucked the phone away and went to locate William. She found him in what she assumed was a bedroom but one built on a completely different scale; she got distracted by its size. It was probably twenty-five feet in one direction and twenty in another, with floor-to-ceiling bay windows that created a beautiful nook that would have made a nice seating area. A ducal-sized bed could fit in the room and still allow plenty of space for other furniture.

William was on the phone when she stepped in; Lizabeth caught his eye. He waved a hand as though to say he would be off soon. She stepped back out and went to peek at the other rooms; they were equally large bedrooms, though there was a lack of bathrooms that a modern person would bemoan. She was going to see what surprise awaited behind a closed door when he found her.

"Sorry about that," he apologized. "It seems we both have demands, and the need to make phone calls."

Lizabeth wondered if she could ask who he had been talking to, but William volunteered the information. "That was Caroline. There are some things which have come up."

"Come up? It sounds like you need to go."

"I do," he admitted. "But not right away. I had planned to stay up here until the city council meeting on Wednesday, but I will need to go and come back then."

"You're going home today?"

"Tonight," he clarified, coming up to gather her in his arms. "I'm not in a hurry to leave, _quite yet_. I'm not in a hurry to leave you." She could feel his warmth; it was more than the heat from his body as he stood near her. It was his presence; he was focused entirely on her. She thought that she wanted him again; could they make love before he went away?

"How much time do I have?" she asked. It appeared that this was to be the measure of dating a man who lived in LA, and who had the type of job that he did. Despite promises (though he hadn't promised or even assured her that he would be _with her_ all week), he would need to go back to his city and his work.

"Let's have dinner," he declared, drawing her close for another kiss. "But given traffic, I should leave tonight."

She frowned even as she nodded. "Can we finish touring the house another day? That way, we have time to change for dinner and…" she left her sentence unfinished as her voice fell off; Lizabeth hoped he understood her meaning.

"Yes." He kissed her again, having a difficult time doing so as he was grinning.

They walked downstairs, his hand around her waist. "It's a shame. I wanted to show you the turret. Everyone loves checking out the turret."

"It just means you'll have to come back and show it to me again," she challenged.

"You know I'll be back," he assured her. William locked up the house, and also had to lock the gates after they pulled through. "Do you have a preference for dinner?" She didn't. "I imagine we should change, but I will find a good place for us."

* * *

They ate at a place called London's, which Lizabeth had never heard of. It was in a rather nondescript building with no signage, and she wondered if it was even a restaurant. William assured her that it was. There was a gentleman at the door who opened it before they got to it, and unlike those crowded entryways in other dining establishments, this one was austere and didn't have a waiting room. A man in a dark suit came, bowed slightly to William, and said his name as if he had been waiting his whole life to do just that. He led the pair of them to a table, cloth-covered and elegant.

Lizabeth understood that this was a high-end restaurant given the almost lack of décor, the distance between the tables, and the deference given the two of them. There were no prices listed on the menu, which had been printed _that day_ as it included the date.

It was romantic. She knew William would drop her off at home and drive back to LA that night, but she wasn't disappointed. Instead, she enjoyed their time together, his presence, and their conversation. He indicated that ordering an entire bottle of wine wouldn't be a good choice, so they ordered a glass each. But her heart felt full. It wasn't beating rapidly, but the happiness of being with him made it swell. She felt giddy, little-girl giddy, like one who is proud of a creation and wants to share.

She let William select the meal. Most of the dishes on the menu were ones she had never heard of, and because he knew about her limited palette; Lizabeth trusted his judgment. Everything he chose was delicious, but not so overwhelming in flavor or spice that it assaulted her. But there wasn't anything that wasn't palatable, and she complimented him on his choices.

There was also dessert. It was the tiniest confection—which she questioned. The creation was so small she thought to consume it in three bites. William assured her it was a custard that was rich enough to please. He ordered a café with his since he had to drive later. It came in a doll's cup.

_That_ was the first indication that the evening was drawing to a close. Those hovering waiters, plural, didn't present William with a bill. Apparently, there was some other way to settle it, but their coats were brought back, and he slipped Lizabeth's on her shoulders, kissed her cheek, and they left.

"Come up?" she asked when he parked at her complex.

"I think I left a few things," he said. They walked hand-in-hand to her door. Lizabeth had gotten in the habit of making sure that the orange ball of fluff didn't escape whenever she unlocked and opened the door, but Kitty wasn't lying in wait. As soon as the door clicked shut, though, the cat crawled out from under the couch to harass Lizabeth. Her owner now recognized the chorus of meows and knew that this one was a demand for food and not for attention or howls of neglect.

"I'll start packing," said William.

Lizabeth fed the cat, then scratched Kitty quickly after she had eaten, her attention, for once, elsewhere. She finished her speed snuggling and walked down the hall. His leather duffel bag sat on the bed in the spare room; she stopped in the doorway and watched him. He sensed her and turned around.

"Your toothbrush is still in the bathroom," she said. "But it's the one from before. You can leave it here if you want."

"I'll leave it here." They stared at each other, tension growing between them. He had to leave that evening or else waste too much time being caught in LA traffic, but neither wished to say goodbye.

"Leave it here," Lizabeth repeated and took a step towards him. "I can be sure you'll come back for it then because it's so valuable." She grinned and moved closer. William closed the distance between them, and they reached for each other. Their hands ran over the other's body as their lips touched, gently at first, then heat took over. Both of them groaned, without breaking contact. He ran his fingers through her hair while Lizabeth's hands moved down to run over his behind.

She pulled him against her while she whispered, "stay an hour." His answer was to pick her up and throw her down next to his duffel bag, but she shook her head and held out a staying hand. "Not this bed, not this room."

William grabbed her hand and tugged, and they went running out of the spare room, with its associated memories, and into her room which held far happier memories. He closed the door against the fluffball. "Lights?"

"No," she whispered. Despite that one time in the afternoon at his aunt's house, Lizabeth preferred making love in the dark and under the sheets. William flicked off the overhead lights to join her by the bed.

She still didn't know what to do and appreciated his taking the lead. With time, she would know what she liked and what she didn't. Putting her hand around his neck to feel the short, clipped hairs that graced the back of it always thrilled her, and she braved that touch. Beyond that, however, Lizabeth didn't know how else to touch him, how to undress him.

William's hands were busy with her dress zipper; her dress puddled on the floor. Her bra joined it. He kissed her, but his hands were busy heating her skin. His kisses traced down her chin then her neck; they swirled around a shoulder as his hands cupped her breasts. He feathered down to cover both of them with kisses before he stopped to unbutton his shirt.

She slipped into bed while he removed the rest of his clothes and joined her then gathered her to him underneath those crisp sheets, but the heat from both their bodies warmed them quickly. There was a frenzy of movement; their need was intense as hands and arms and lips and teeth worked instantly to arouse both of them. Lizabeth was panting. She had been thinking of this exact scene all through dinner, their desire pushed them on quickly as their need was ferocious. She was no longer embarrassed by her nakedness but reveled in the touch of their bodies and savored the intimacy.

Her arm lay under William's neck, a hand was on his chest as they snuggled afterward, dozing for a few minutes before his hand ran gentle fingers along her arm. "I need to get dressed. It will be the middle of the night before I arrive home, otherwise."

Lizabeth's hand on his chest traced a small pattern before she pushed herself away, and pulled her arm free. She moved to the edge of the bed but didn't say anything; she didn't want him to go but understood.

The next day there was work (like there always was work) and William would return soon enough. But it was hard to part from him even for a few days and something inside crimped a little. Perhaps separation was easier for other people who were more used to relationships or more comfortable with intimacy. She wanted him to stay as much as she understood the reasons for his leaving.

William slipped out of bed and left her to ponder the newness of this relationship as he quickly showered and dressed. She wasn't in love with him, but the foundation was undoubtedly better laid than with her ex-boyfriend. But Lizabeth felt a warmth inside and couldn't help but smile when she thought about him.

Perhaps she didn't understand how people were supposed to interact? She had no positive relationship with her parents. Her mother ruled the roost, but such a figure, always tightly in charge, wasn't a good example of how to be with someone. Maybe it was why her father was so obsessed with sports, but perhaps he would have been that way anyway. They hadn't divorced; on some level, the relationship worked for them. But since coming to Merton, Lizabeth had been learning how to be friends with people since she didn't have much of an idea of how to do so in the past. She was likely to make mistakes, both with friends and with William.

"Ready," he said, standing in the doorway.

"I'll see you off," she answered. She stood, without embarrassment at her nudity, and pulled on a robe. "I need to make sure the kitten doesn't escape."

"Just that?" he quipped.

"And kiss you, goodbye."

The cat was asleep on the couch as they stood by the front door for one last drawn-out kiss. "I'll call you tomorrow night," he promised.

"If you're not too busy," she cautioned.

"I will make time," he said then opened the door and left.

Kitty didn't move, and Lizabeth considered petting her for a little solace but went to seek solace in her bed where there was a slight scent that she believed was William's smell. She might not wash the sheets until he returned.


	23. Chapter 23

Volume 3: BIT

Lizabeth discovered that no matter how busy the day, if you were missing someone, it was long. Monday went on forever when Wednesday was so far in the future.

She brought lunch to work, intending to use the resources in her office to look up the birth certificates of the Goulding family for William. But there were pulses of activity as more men came in to file fictitious business statements. She thought she had never seen more than four people besides herself in the office at any one time, so when the seventh person walked in, Lizabeth could only stare as he queued at the counter. It worked to give a general speech to all of them about the steps needed, and she was thankful that none of them were overly argumentative.

After she had taken care of the first one, and was checking over the second man's paperwork (when he was carefully writing out a check), Lizabeth asked: "why the rush?"

The man finished writing the words for the amount before he looked up. "RuggeCoin has a public offering soon. There's a rush to get in on the ground floor."

"You can buy and trade shares in bit-coin, like on the stock market?" she asked. He nodded. "I didn't know that!" Lizabeth exclaimed before focusing on number two's claim forms.

Number four said that there was an incentive with _this_ bit-coin offer because the claim was backed by a treasure hoard. The owners were weekend treasure hunters who looked for lost California treasure hoards from the 18th century and claimed to have found one. Anyone buying shares would receive dividends against that discovered treasure hoard.

"Interesting," she remarked. Lizabeth was glad she had brought food as she was still processing the last man's paperwork when it was close to lunch. She asked him why he was filing to be a miner with a fictitious business statement.

"Because the dividends for those who are owner/miners is greater than those who are just miners," he replied.

"Even more interesting," she replied. "Is that legal?"

"Has to be if they're offering it," he quipped.

* * *

Lizabeth texted Charlene at the end of the day to ask how things were going and then asked in as off-handed manner as she could (over text) if her friend wanted to meet for dinner. Unofficially, they had been going out to dinner most Monday nights, but Charlene texted back that she was too busy, complaining about chores left undone because she had spent so much time with Lyle. Lizabeth didn't press about dinner.

At home, she turned the TV on, but it didn't keep her interest, so she got out her laptop. She did refined searches on the Goulding family. Finding information was what she had learned to do in school. How to throw a wide net to ensure that you get what you want, then how to whittle it down to get the precise answer. Anyone starting with just the name and in a generic internet search engine would get thousands of results to a given search.

Lizabeth had more information: a set of dates, the son's name, and middle initials—she also knew that there were daughters. Sometimes it helped, instead of looking in a search engine, to search old newspaper archives, though _those_ were sources you often couldn't access for free. But by the time she was ready for bed, Lizabeth had firm dates of marriages, births, and the sister's names.

William didn't call until almost nine. He was apologetic but asked about her day. She talked about how unusual it had been, for once. Though she normally had predictable days, this hadn't been one. She mentioned the bit-coin offering.

"Interesting," he remarked.

"Do you think it's related to the commercial property development?" she asked.

"Why would it be?" William asked.

"I don't know," was her automatic response. Then she shook her head to clear it as she put the laptop to one side and sat cross-legged on the couch while they talked. "Perhaps one or two of those men might set up offices to do mining in that commercial space?"

"I never considered that."

"Maybe somebody is going to set up some sort of internet-café place where they can rent desk space," Lizabeth speculated.

"I don't know anything about bit-coin mining," William answered.

"There's always the internet," she pointed out.

"And you're the expert there," he said.

"I suppose I am." She agreed with a smile, then asked about his day.

It had been one of frustration. "I spent it on the phone talking to people who were not interested in being helpful."

"Sorry to hear that," said Lizabeth.

"Comes with the job," he assured her. "Some days I get lucky, some days, people don't answer or just feed me a story."

* * *

On Tuesday, the day was relieved from one of boring routines when George Wickham and Lydia Philips walked in shortly after she opened the recording office doors.

"We're back," were George's first words. "We got that date for you and wondered if we couldn't do the ceremony now?"

"The Judge only does civil ceremonies on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays in the _afternoon_," Lizabeth replied.

"I talked to the Judge on Friday. He said he could fit us in and to just knock on the door when we had the paperwork done," George countered.

_That_ was surprising news; in all her months of working in the office, Judge Metcalfe had never deviated from any routine. It was why he and Mimi got along so well. They were both organized, meticulous people.

"Let's ensure that the paperwork is correct," she said. Lizabeth knew from their past attempt that the only thing missing was the date of his divorce decree, which he now had. It turned out not to be years in the past, as he had claimed; it had only been finalized eighteen months previously. Not nearly as quickly as he assumed. She pointed out the date.

"Yeah," George looked sheepish but unabashed. "Andrea dragged her heels about getting it done."

Once the paperwork was signed, Lizabeth knocked on Troy Metcalfe's office door where he called her in. She walked in and shut it behind her—something she had done a number of times recently. "George Wickham is here claiming…" she began.

"It's okay," the Judge interrupted. "You'll need to stand as a witness."

"Okay." Lizabeth paused before asking. "Do you want them to come in now?"

"Let me just finish something. Send them in in ten minutes," he answered.

She went out to inform the pair that they had only a few minutes to prepare.

"I can't believe that we're finally going to do it," Lydia declared.

"Everything will be okay now," said George.

Lizabeth noticed that he wasn't looking at his bride-to-be. The pair seemed anxious rather than excited. She ushered them in after the time had elapsed. Judge Metcalfe took them through the brief civil ceremony. He then signed the marriage license, and Lizabeth signed it as a witness. She and Troy congratulated the pair.

Lizabeth stayed in the office during her lunch break to do more searches and found William K. Goulding's birth certificate. He had been born right before the Great Depression in 1929. His first child, Debra, was born in 1959. There was a second daughter, Brenda, who was born in 1963. She wondered at the gap, four years. Given the time and the fact that the birth control pill was just being introduced (and this was a married couple), why weren't there other children? William and his wife, Joyce, had married in 1957, but it had taken them two years for their first child to appear.

She stared at the birth certificate for Debra Goulding and wondered if one or more of their children had died or had they simply had trouble conceiving? There was no index for the 1950s and 1960s, but with determination and a little luck, she was able to find both a certificate of birth—stillbirth—and a death certificate for a William _M._ Goulding in 1958. There _had_ been a son, a _namesake_ son, born a year after their marriage, which accounted for why his surviving son had been named David.

David Goulding's year of birth was listed in all the documentation or news reports that she had found in her searches as 1976. Luckily, the official records were indexed in the 1970s, but Lizabeth was surprised to find that he was actually born in 1975. When she tracked down his birth certificate on the computer: she considered his life. He had to be in his forties now, and she wondered if he had children of his own.

Then she realized that she hadn't read the certificate carefully. His mother's family name was listed as Goulding, but her first name was not Joyce but _Debra_. The father was listed as _Dennis Wickham_, aged seventeen. Lizabeth stared at the document and wondered about the implications. Perhaps in the 1970s, having babies out of wedlock was still of concern, or maybe William K. had really wanted a son, so he had adopted his daughter's child as his own. Debra hadn't yet reached her seventeenth birthday. William K. Goulding was forty-six at the time; apparently it wasn't suspicious for him to be a father again. Was that what the father and son had argued about and had caused David to leave town? Was that the reason that William Goulding had closed up the property to rot for years?

* * *

Lizabeth had to get back to work after her discoveries at lunch. Hurriedly she ate a snack and then unlocked the doors. As she worked through what proved to be a thankfully slow afternoon, she considered that she was using her position in a shady manner. People requesting vital documents were supposed to have some association with the requestee. However, there _were_ online services where you could order any vital document about anyone so long as you had their statistics. Perhaps it wasn't _shady_ so much a gray area. But she fretted over what she had done as Tuesday afternoon dragged on. It was a day for scanning old maps again, and thankfully no more men came in to file statements.

Her cell phone rang as soon as she shut the apartment door behind her. Kitty crawled from beneath the couch to howl at her, but Lizabeth stared at her mother's contact information. She answered while walking towards the kitchen to feed her pet.

"You haven't rejected me after all," Mrs. Bennet murmured.

"I wasn't rejecting you before," she declared as she balanced the phone beneath her chin and attempted to get the lid off of the cat food can.

"_Why_? Why do you have to choose a cat over your mother?"

"It isn't that I am choosing _her_ over you. I live alone and enjoy having her company," Lizabeth explained. The contents were poured into Kitty's bowl, but the cat still howled at her feet.

"I could keep you company. Maybe you should find a job closer to home, and that way you wouldn't be so lonely and could come over after work?" Dawn suggested.

"I like my job. I like living here, and I've worked hard at establishing myself," Lizabeth explained. "I don't want to move closer to home." The cat stopped crying and started to eat.

"Baby!" cried her mother, "couldn't you consider it? You know I hate driving, and your father is so beastly as to insist that he won't drive me to Merton anymore unless you give him the okay. What am I to do with myself?"

"You like to cook," Lizabeth suggested.

"I like to cook for _others_," Dawn explained. Her daughter thought she sounded like a pouty schoolgirl.

"Perhaps the library or city college has classes you might like to take?"

There was silence on the line. "Why did you grow up?" said her mother. It was mostly a question, though also a lament.

"It's what happens, Mom," was Lizabeth's reply.

"I never wanted you to grow up," said Dawn. Lizabeth could hear the sorrow in her mother's voice. She didn't have a response. "I wanted you to remain my little girl forever." Silence echoed again on the phone line as Lizabeth still wasn't sure what to say or what _not_ to say to such a declaration.

Kitty finished eating and nudged her head against Lizabeth's leg; she knelt down and petted her while the silence drew out.

"I guess I should fix something for your father to eat. He's rooting for the Cubs. I don't know why he doesn't prefer the Cardinals; they have a prettier mascot!" The phone went dead.

Lizabeth had been waiting for her mother to ask about William. Either she forgot about seeing him on Saturday night in all the chaos or wasn't brave enough to broach the subject. She tucked her phone in her pocket, finished putting away her belongings, and changed her clothes. Then she worked at fixing herself something to eat, attempting to follow a recipe she had found online. One side of her chicken was slightly burnt-looking when her cell rang again.

"Hello, I'm cooking, hold on," she told William as she nestled the phone against her chin and eyed her chicken as it sizzled. It didn't sound like a good sizzle. He asked what she was making, and she explained about her breaded chicken. "The rice is done, and I didn't burn it this time!"

He talked about his day while she kept peeking at the underside of her dinner until she thought it looked 'golden brown' as per the directions, before she removed it from the heat and turned off the stove. "Done," Lizabeth declared.

"How'd it turn out?" he asked.

"Golden brown, on one side. The other is a little dark," she admitted.

"Should I let you go so you can eat?"

"Let me quickly tell you about my searches today. I found the marriage certificates and birth certificates for the Goulding family. And David Goulding isn't a son, but the _grandson_! It's been hushed up, though it seems odd for anyone to do that in the 1970s."

"Old Man Goulding must have wanted a son to replace him," William suggested.

"I think you're right. There was a son born way back in the 50s, right after he married, but the son was stillborn. But his oldest daughter, Debra, had a baby when she was just sixteen. Maybe they thought she wasn't mature enough to raise him," she suggested.

"Perhaps," he agreed.

"But one thing is odd, and I wanted to ask you, the father is listed as Dennis Wickham. Do you think he's related to George Wickham? Do you know George at all? I understood that the Wickham family has lived in Merton for a long time," said Lizabeth.

William didn't say anything, and silence rattled the line just like it had on the call with her mother. Fear suddenly swirled around as Lizabeth worried that she had brought up some taboo topic. What if William and George had some past history together, some rivalry?

"William?" she prompted. "Is that bad news? Should I not have mentioned George?"

"I know George," he said at last. "Yes, the Wickham family has lived in Merton for a couple of generations." The line went still again. "I don't know that I can tell you, just now, what's on my mind. Can you trust me?"

"Yes," she answered automatically. Inside, her guts twisted even more. Lizabeth felt her palms sweating, and the phone slipped a little. It was difficult not to feel that she had messed up with William in some way, just like she worried she would.

"I don't know _what_ my schedule will be like tomorrow. And there's the city council meeting. Is it okay if I crash with you? I'll try to swing by before I go to the meeting, but I may not be there until late. Is that okay, Lizabeth?" he asked.

"Yes. How late will you be?"

"The meeting starts at seven but can end at nine or go much later if there is a lot of debate. I'll text if it's going late. If I'm not able to appear by 10:00 p.m., I can go to the hotel," he offered.

"No," she said. "Come anytime. I want to see you." Lizabeth hoped she didn't sound too desperate; she needed to see him in person, in the flesh now.

"All right," his voice wasn't convincing. "But if it's late, I may _still_ opt for a hotel. Goodnight."

"Night," she said, and they hung up. Lizabeth didn't feel like eating then. Her cellphone was stuffed back in her pocket, and she looked at the dishes and pans in the kitchen. She packed up the chicken and rice, pulled out a fizzy drink, and curled up with Kitty on the couch to wonder what had just happened?

* * *

Skipping dinner turned out to be a bad choice as Lizabeth woke hungry in the middle of the night. When she appeared at 2:00 a.m. in the front room, Kitty thought she was there to play. The cat's dry food bowl was refilled before Lizabeth sat down with some crackers on the couch. After her snack, the cat joined her as she did searches on her laptop. Kitty tried to help by pressing random keys but eventually curled up and went back to sleep.

Now Lizabeth focused on searching for Dennis Wickham. There were a lot of hits. The first were news reports about his death in a car accident when he was forty. Dennis had lost control of his car on I-5, going at a high rate of speed; it was speculated that he had been driving at over one hundred miles an hour when he crashed.

Other reports gave details about his life and family. Like William Darcy and William Goulding, Dennis Wickham had been born in Merton. And like _her_ William, the Wickham family had been an important one at one time. Perhaps it still was, though it seemed others, like the Fitzwilliams or the Deburgs or the Lucases, no longer wielded as much clout these days.

Dennis Wickham had attended a prestigious university, and Lizabeth read into that not what the report implied, that he had _graduated_, but the literal word 'attended.' She figured he had gone for a year or three then dropped out. The man was a playboy. A dozen articles indicated he had led quite an extravagant lifestyle, which showcased he had money and time and not many worries. He married an actress, Ann-Louise Hurst, when he was in his early twenties and became her manager. Lizabeth found a large number of paparazzi pictures of the couple at events or on shoots or at premieres.

They seemed a perfect pair, but Ann-Louise abruptly filed for divorce six years later, citing infidelity. Dennis Wickham quickly remarried a local Merton heiress, Angela Darling. A son was born a year later: George. This was the George she had met in all those registry office visits.

Lizabeth stopped her searching to consider the portrait she had sketched of George Wickham with his visits to the recording office, and the background she was piecing together of his family from the internet; they gave two different sides of a family. Doing some quick calculations in her head, she realized that he was eight when his father died in that car wreck. Such a loss had to have affected him. But one more article made her regret the whole undertaking. Angela Darling had died a year before Dennis. George was an orphan and had grown up without either parent. While Lizabeth's parents were what they were, at least she _had_ them. She closed her laptop and went to bed.

* * *

Work wasn't challenging, and her day was long. She hoped that since William was due, the hours might pass more quickly, and Lizabeth scanned maps to get by. Even the Judge remarked on the slowness of the day and said he was going to take the afternoon off to see Mimi and Anthony.

William didn't call or text. She imagined he had to concentrate on work before he left. Sometime in the afternoon, Lizabeth slapped her desk when she realized how bitter she was that he hadn't called. She wished he had stayed, but most of all, Lizabeth wondered what he had to tell her about the Wickham family.

_Traffic on I-5 terrible, will have to go straight to city meeting_, popped up on her phone just as Lizabeth was about to lock up. She stared at it as her stomach growled both from hunger and emotion.

_Okay see you afterward_, she texted in return. She hoped for a response, but none came. He was probably on the road and couldn't easily text. Lizabeth locked up.

Somehow, Kitty sensed that she needed company, so after being fed, the cat curled up on her lap. It provided Lizabeth comfort while she waited to hear from William. There was no word until after eleven o'clock; she was curled up in pajamas on the couch, and it was only hope keeping her awake when there was a knock on the door. She gently pushed the cat off her lap and answered the door.

"Hi," William said as he quickly stepped inside; she shut it behind him. "It's been a hell of a long day."

"How was the meeting?" Lizabeth was hesitant as she watched him put bags and his briefcase down next to the door.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said. A hand reached out to stroke her hair. "I want you in the worst way, Lizabeth Todd Bennet." He closed the distance between them so there wasn't an inch to spare.

His clothing was cool because of the air temperature outside, but the intensity and heat of his hands made up for it. They roamed underneath her t-shirt and beneath the drawstring of her pajamas and quickly warmed both of them. There were heated kisses as his hands stroked and pinched.

"I need you _now_," he declared. William stopped to pull off his jacket, placing it on a chair out of the cat's way before taking her by the hand and leading her to the bedroom.

The light was off. He began removing his clothes as soon as he got next to the bed. Lizabeth was bewitched with such a request. She took off her pajamas and slipped beneath the cool sheets. He joined her in moments.

"I won't apologize for it being quick and intense," were the last words he said as he reached for her. It was.

Later, she would think that _fast_ was often equated with bad sex, but she believed she disagreed when _quality_ was what mattered.

Having woken up in the middle of the night the previous night, Lizabeth's brain woke her again. She experienced a different type of love-making then. Her movements woke William, and he taught her that slow and intense was also an equally pleasurable way to make love.

* * *

In the morning, she had to hit the snooze alarm twice and left a naked man in her bed—one who didn't stir. It was after she had fed the cat that Lizabeth considered—for the first time—that having a coffee maker in her house would have been a good choice. Both to wake her, but also for her _guest_.

She dressed quietly inside her walk-in-closet. It was only at the last possible moment, when she had to leave, that there were any signs of waking from William. She came to sit on the bed next to him. (He was sprawled on his back and looked tired.) He only opened his eyes when the mattress dipped down.

"I have to get to work," she said unnecessarily.

"Do you need me to leave?" he asked.

"No. I have a spare key." She had retained the spare and hadn't given it back to her aunt and uncle.

"I could use a little extra sleep. Yesterday was trying—long—for various reasons," he said.

"Do you have to go back to LA today?" she asked.

"No. Well, I _should_," he said, pushing himself up a little more and resting an arm behind his head. "But I need to let my aunt know that the city has decided to move forward with _only_ the Goulding development and not hers. She won't be happy."

"Will that take all day?" asked Lizabeth.

"Knowing Aunt Catherine? Probably," he remarked and yawned. "If I can, I'll swing by at lunchtime."

"Okay," she agreed softly, still unsure of Lizabeth and William. His free hand reached out to touch her. She leaned over, and they kissed briefly.

She drove herself to work and recalled another day when she had speculated about this very scenario and had wondered how it would feel to have a man spend the night. But it wasn't the thrilling, bubbly romantic picture from before. Doubt nagged at her; she felt insecure. Lizabeth wanted to _talk_. Then she remembered the warmth of his body next to hers and his declaring 'I want you.' He had left no doubt about his _desire_ for her. Her insecurities fell away as she recalled their love-making from the night before.

Thursdays were slow, and the day was a Thursday. She kept herself occupied. Doug Morris was still a no-show, as he had been all week. The recording office was quiet, and Lizabeth found herself lost in thought most of the morning.

She enjoyed their intimacies, enjoyed the fact that he _desired_ her. Lizabeth also felt that she had shed those simplistic romantic notions of relationships; they involved give and take. Relationships weren't about being pampered and doted on. Such behavior wore thin as she knew. Edgar probably thought himself in the hero's role. Always holding open the door and paying for dinner, but he had had narrow expectations of Lizabeth (and few based in reality).

But William was the owner of a production company and quite busy. He had been up-front about his schedule and lack of availability. Lizabeth thought that he understood her and her fledgling attempts at life's activities, like cooking, and was supportive and listened. He was someone to show her the ropes.

There were ways _she_ could help _him._ All the information she was finding helped him to help his family. She admired that about him—that he cared so much about his family and took time away from work to help them. Lizabeth hoped there would never be a scenario where he would have to choose, or if his help was no longer needed by them, so he stopped seeing her as he no longer had an excuse to drive north.

Her cell phone rang at a quarter to twelve. "It's William," he began. She assumed he didn't have good news. "My aunt hasn't taken the news well, and I can't get away. If it's okay, I will come get you for an early dinner, but I need to get back to Los Angeles tomorrow."

"Dinner would be great," Lizabeth said. She hoped they would be able to talk over dinner. Patience was required right now, and she could be patient. "Do you want to meet me here or at my apartment?"

"Actually, meeting at your place is a better idea so I can pack," he commented, sounding distracted. "Think of what you want for dinner."

Lizabeth locked the registry office doors for lunch and sat in the break room, nibbling on a snack she had in her desk for emergencies; she didn't feel like going out. She had already canceled on Charlene. While they had texted each other about small details, Lizabeth and her friend hadn't had lunch or dinner since coming back from Los Angeles. But Doug Morris was waiting for her at the front entrance when she returned. Her heart did a little dance at seeing that familiar figure, and she quickened her pace to unlock the doors.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Lizabeth remarked.

Doug held the doors open for her like he always did. "Been to Disneyland with the girls," he explained. "Nothing nefarious, just fun." He grinned.

They took their usual seats, and he entertained her for over an hour with details of his trip. It made her wish that Lyle hadn't been so dead-set against amusement parks. Maybe someday she could visit William and go with him, or even go alone.

The afternoon passed by quicker than she feared, but William wasn't waiting for her when she arrived home. She fed the cat, changed, and then sat down to wait. His knock didn't come until after six. Despite having a key, he didn't let himself in but waited for her to answer.

"Hi," she said, leaning in for a kiss which was warm and intense. William's hands were around her in seconds. "I take it the day has been long for you too?" Lizabeth asked when they finally broke apart.

"Aunt Catherine is insufferable," he said, holding her against him as he gazed at her. "Ready to eat?"

"Yes!" she answered.

* * *

A/N: first rule of being female: never trust a man who says 'trust me.' (Unless he's Indiana Jones.)

That opening line is fitting in these times. The days go on forever when you're waiting for some end-point, some day in the future. Hope all is well.


	24. Chapter 24

William didn't want to let Lizabeth go while he gazed down at her. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a dark wave, and he watched a strand fall first against her cheek before it obscured an eye. She stared at him with a seductive gaze. He thought of taking her off to bed again. But they hadn't talked yet.

"Did you decide on a place?" William asked instead.

"Yes, there's a Mexican place close by," she answered with a small smile twisting her mouth before her features relaxed. She looked nervous. He wasn't sure if it was the newness of being with a man or if it had something to do with him. William knew that she came with expectations, and he wondered how he was doing?

The restaurant turned out to be a mom and pop sort of place; the food wasn't the best but wasn't a bottom-feeder chain either. Lizabeth indicated that she came there often since it was close; she had favorite dishes as she barely glanced at the menu.

"Aunt Catherine is over-the-top upset. I had hoped to be able to tell her about the council's decision, console her, and still make it to the office for lunch with you. But obviously, that didn't happen. She's the sort who shoots the messenger even though she didn't go to the city council meeting in the first place and doesn't appreciate how much work I put into this project for her. _Or_ how much work I am _not_ putting into my own," he mused, looking across the small table at her.

"I'm sorry," she answered.

"Thankfully, she's not a fainter or one for hysterics," he continued. "She always talks about having the constitution of an ox, which I don't believe since both my mother and uncle died young." Lizabeth had been reaching for her glass of water, but her hand stilled. "Don't be too concerned if I am a little flippant right now about my family. My uncle died of a heart attack. My mother, the same. But both had other reasons that compounded their deaths."

"You don't often hear of women having heart trouble," she said. Her hand settled back in her lap without picking up the glass.

William wasn't sure that he wanted to bring up his mother or give too much of his family history. "Catherine attacked me for not being aggressive enough with the city council. But as I warned, they preferred putting all of their focus on the Goulding property. Their developers have better backers, it's in a more traditional area of town, and they decided not to focus on vanity lots, but standard-sized residential lots instead. I have to agree with them on most points. Trouble is, it leaves my aunt with a huge tract of land she can't sell and potentially without any money to live on."

"What will she do?" Lizabeth asked. Her shoulders moved gently. William thought she was fidgeting with her hands beneath the table as she listened.

"I don't know. I had hoped that Anne would step up to help her. When I could finally get away from my aunt, I went to find her, but she was out until mid-afternoon." He stopped talking while their food was served.

When the waitress left, Lizabeth prompted him, "did you have a good talk with your cousin?"

He stared at her as he considered Anne Deburg and their conversation. His cousin had been entirely unmoved by her mother's fate. But did he want to share _that_ with Lizabeth? Anne was often a cold and logical person in the way she saw and dealt with the world, but William had incorrectly assumed that she would be concerned about her mother.

"No, I didn't. She had been out having lunch with her friend, Georgiana Darling. They came back to the house together. Anne said that they have plans and didn't have time to speak to me." He noticed Lizabeth's attention spark a little when he mentioned Anne's friend but didn't ask any other questions.

There was a meal to eat, which made a break from the discussion. The subjects were getting difficult for him. It was early days in this relationship with Lizabeth; he didn't wish to share too much too soon. She had been clever enough to do that research the other night and uncover the fact that Dennis Wickham had fathered David Goulding (that David was the _grandson_, not the son of William Goulding). But then she had asked _'Do you know George at all? … Should I not have mentioned George_?'

Those questions had made his gut such a tangled mess that William hadn't been sure that he could continue speaking to her. He had been amazed that he had been able to keep talking—and even managed to get off the phone.

But memories of a visit to his Uncle Lewis had assaulted him. It had come running back when he had buried it; William hadn't slept much that night. Lewis Deburg was the one person he had loved the most in his life. William had looked up to him and been mentored and loved in return. Dementia had taken his uncle, but before he drifted away, Lewis had shared that Anne was not his daughter. He knew that Catherine had cheated on him with the playboy, Dennis Wickham. It was the reason Ann-Louise divorced Dennis. But Anne Deburg and George Wickham were half-siblings.

But so too was David Goulding, it seemed. It was overwhelming to consider all of the implications. All of them families 'of note' in the Merton area. (As if that was important.) Dennis must have been a teenager when he fathered David back in the 1970s. William wondered if Dennis Wickham had even known about Debra Goulding's baby or if he had gone off to college ignorant of that fact? But Uncle Lewis said he knew that Anne was not his, but he loved her and didn't want anyone to know or worry or ever to challenge his will. Everything that he left _must_ go to Anne. (Though Catherine had been good at wielding control over a lot of that inheritance.)

William was never sure if Anne knew who her real father was, but to abide by his uncle's wishes meant, to him, withholding the origin of her birth. But he, who had always longed for a sibling, had often wondered whether she would benefit from knowing she had a half-brother in George Wickham, who was an innocuous rascal, a younger brother by a few years. But now there was this news of a much older brother, a decade or more older. William had spent most of the night wondering if he should tell Anne about her brothers, plural.

"You've gone quiet," Lizabeth commented before taking another bite.

"I had a writer quit in a huff. That is why I had to return to Los Angeles," he explained.

"Really?" she brightened as if ready to hear a story.

"Yes. Remember how I met you at the Griffith Observatory? We had a scene planned for our characters and shot it on the day the place was closed. But Caroline, who is far better with historical details than I am, realized that the observatory wasn't built until 1933, which falls outside of our timeframe, so we had to scrap the whole scene. It was a waste of time and money and resources." William sat back with a sigh.

"A quick search would have solved that right away," Lizabeth asserted.

"The writer insisted that we could still use the scene and called it _creative license_. He wouldn't budge, argued with Caroline, argued with me, and then quit. Then he decided he would sue us for all the work he had been doing on the project. It's been a crazy couple of days."

"Maybe you need a historian for your project?" she grinned and seemed to relax a little, taking another bite.

"If I continue to do historical dramas, I think I will," he agreed. William stared at her, thinking again how beautiful she was. He had never been so entranced with a woman, not in many years. Perhaps he could hire Lizabeth to come work for him? But that would be the wrong move, to hire a woman he was dating. "I hate to say this, but I need to return home tonight. And I don't know that I will be back this weekend. I've left too many pots boiling back home."

That spark across from him dimmed; it didn't blow out, just dimmed. William took that as a good sign. He needed to hit the road soon. Even though they had made love on Sunday before he had run off and last night, this week had been one of running on adrenaline and coffee and no sleep. He needed to get home at a decent hour; there would be no time to take her to bed before he left.

"I knew you were busy; I guess I just didn't realize _how_ busy," she admitted.

"Does it bother you?" William asked.

"Yes." She was honest. "But I like you, and like seeing you. It goes with the package." Lizabeth was silent for a minute. "I could wish you were closer, but that is just…wishful. Like I said, part of the package."

He had to admire her stoicism, though given the small stories she had shared, the mother he had met, William wondered if retreating into stoicism wasn't natural behavior for her? If he wanted things to work out with her, he might need to try harder and do better or lose her to some more readily available man.

"You could always drive down some weekend to see me," he suggested as he put his utensils down. She looked at him almost as if a deer-in-a-headlight. The idea was deliberated on; he watched Lizabeth process it.

"I don't know that I have ever driven more than sixty miles in any one direction," she admitted. "Driving to LA by myself would be a first." William didn't say anything as she wasn't done. "But there has to be a first time for everything, right?"

"Right," he agreed.

"But I don't think this weekend. Cat and I," she flashed him a half-smile; her dimple showed. William lurched under the power of her smile as his insides turned in disappointment. Images of waking with Lizabeth in his bed at home had flashed in his brain.

"I will miss you," he said. She had gotten underneath his skin. Perhaps he wasn't paying as much attention to his work as he used to. Maybe working fourteen-hour days weren't as important, and no longer _were _the point. The waitress took away their plates and promptly brought their bill, and the two of them got up to leave.

"How is Charles?" Lizabeth asked as they got into the car.

"I haven't seen him since that time up here."

She laughed. "I had this idea that since you both live there, you run into each other every day."

"I suppose I should counter and ask you how Jane is?"

She gave an even heartier chuckle. "I think I've seen Jane once in the same timeframe. Jane isn't happy. I haven't been back to the hotel bar to talk to her, but I know she isn't happy."

"There you are; we're both in the dark as to what is happening between those two." Lizabeth explained her suppositions that Jane would never move south, no matter the job or the living arrangements, nor would Charles move north.

"There are no acting jobs up here," he agreed. "So it looks to be a relationship that is ill-fated." She nodded.

Once home, he packed up. Though she hovered, and William thought she was hinting gently that she would like him to stay, he explained again that he couldn't handle getting home at 3 a.m. after running on four or five hours of sleep for the past number of nights. She nodded.

"We'll make plans to be together as soon as our schedules allow," William said as they said goodbye by her front door, though they spent an excessive amount of time kissing first.

* * *

He was in bed by 2:30 a.m. and in the office by 8:00 a.m. It proved to be a day of phone calls and frustration, which melted into the weekend. Having to scrap the footage meant losing three weeks of production; there were so many decisions that needed to be made. He needed a new writer. He needed resolution about the disgruntled writer (with his lawsuit), and they needed to decide what to do about the story arc.

It was easy not to consider anything but work for the next week and a half. This was a pattern of behavior that was familiar, and it took will power to carve out time to call Lizabeth every evening to simply talk. Not that it was a duty or a penance. His day was so often a repeat of the same things, a busyness of going from one task to the other, a _stream,_ that stopping the flow of activity was difficult, but stepping out to dry off, in a sense, proved a welcome distraction once he _did_ step free of the work.

Every day, when they spoke, he heard the excitement in her voice, and it fed something inside of him. One which he recognized as the part of him which cared for his cousins even though the recognition he received from Anne and Ryan wasn't the same. Some days, the discussions between him and Lizabeth were long, some were short; it depended on his availability. He knew that was unfair—that their time was dictated entirely by his workload.

But Lizabeth indicated that she wasn't sitting around waiting for him to call. She mentioned going out with friends, mostly she went to the hotel bar. He mockingly scolded her about having not learned her lesson. She insisted she didn't go to drink. "I go to talk," was her reply. "Jane and Mary are there."

One day, she even shared that she had dinner with her friend Charlene and the boyfriend, but that things had been a little tense since they had returned from LA "It's like they had to go hibernate," was her take on it. "It wasn't anything to do with me, but everything to do with them. Like they just had to spend a bunch of time together to the exclusion of their friends. But spring is here now, and they're little ground creatures and can poke their heads back up again."

William said, "I've seen that with friends. Though once they come back into the light, the relationship often breaks up."

"Yeah. They seem to be happy together, but there's no meat to it. But I haven't felt left out," Lizabeth asserted. "Once they feel more secure with each other; then they can allow others back into their lives."

"That's pretty astute," he agreed. "I think you're right. Especially for people who maybe were a little less secure about their feelings."

"How would you characterize us?" she asked.

"I think we're too busy to have the luxury of hiding away from the world," he answered. He thought about that. It had been years since he had any time off. "I would love to go on some trip with you and hibernate, though."

"I don't get any vacation time," Lizabeth asserted. William wasn't sure what to make of that statement, and she didn't elaborate.

* * *

The issue with the rogue writer was ultimately settled, though a new one had yet to be hired. Nor had he and Caroline decided on what to do with the story arc. They sat working in their small office late in the week when something caused William to look over at Caro in their shared space. His partner had a concerned, concentrated look on her face, and he wondered what bothered her.

"How is the debauching going?" she quipped.

He had to smile slightly. "Is that a question, or are you just fishing?"

"A question," Caroline answered. "You've been working hard, and yet something's off. I've finally reasoned that you've done it and are seeing her."

"She came to Los Angeles at the end of last month, and we ran into each other," William explained.

Caroline arched a beautiful eyebrow. "I didn't think she was the sort to leave home. You don't suppose she would ever consider leaving that town, do you?"

"I believe Lizabeth is more adventurous and creative than others give her credit for or perceive her to be," he said. "She's great at research and has been helping with finding information for my aunt's property. If we had had Lizabeth on board, we would have saved Zach writing us into a corner with one quick search. She ferreted out all the real estate developers or businesses who have a hand in developing the property that the city approved, even though one of them is her ex. I've considered that we should hire her so we don't screw up our projects."

"You've never wanted to hire a girlfriend before." William couldn't tell from Caroline's tone what she was thinking.

"I've never had a girlfriend I've considered hiring before. Though I've dated my actresses," he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not sure you deserve Lizabeth; she's too decent." Caro definitely disapproved.

"What if she makes me a better person?" he asserted. His partner snorted. "Yet, _you_ work with me."

"A working relationship is entirely different," she declared. Caroline looked away as she suddenly became thoughtful. "I did think she would film well. Maybe she could both work and act? We could introduce her as a minor character in _Bella Montaña_, see how well she can act. Maybe she could be Charles's love interest?"

"Possibly." William _had_ considered how well Lizabeth would film before.

"But could you handle Charles with his hands and lips on your girlfriend?" Caro's tone again wasn't indicative of her underlying message. Was she teasing or being concerned?

* * *

Lizabeth had told him repeatedly that she had never driven more than one hundred miles away, so she was reluctant to come down to Los Angeles to see him. While he could drive up, there were still so many details he needed to handle that her coming down made more sense. She agreed to try but didn't want to drive at night. She decided to attempt driving first thing on a Saturday morning. It would be a short trip, with her just spending the night on Saturday before returning on Sunday afternoon.

But William looked forward to having her by his side and in his bed for the weekend. His house was never too cluttered as he didn't spend much time in it. On Thursday night, he couldn't concentrate on notes Caroline gave him and instead went around the place, cleaning it in anticipation of sharing his space.

But he was thinking again about the story arc, staring unproductively into space when his cell phone rang around Friday lunchtime. It was Lizabeth. "Hi! I am happy to have an excuse to stop and talk," he said.

"Hi." Her greeting sounded hesitant, and William immediately thought that she was going to beg off driving down.

"Something up?" he prompted.

"Yeah. You know how I keep going on about these weird fictitious business statements, the ones about bit-coin mining?" He said something encouraging, happy that it appeared she wasn't begging off. "Well, I've been swamped today. There've been so many that the Judge had to come help me."

"That's _got_ to have been unusual," he quipped.

"Yeah, there was one day, a week ago when it was like this. But today was a madhouse," she said. He made an encouraging noise. "It turns out that there's going to be a stock offering on Monday, and it's a local one. Those who are both miners _and_ shareowners can purchase a different class of stock than those who _just_ own shares; it pays a different dividend." He grunted to acknowledge that he was paying attention. "Anyway, it was just so crazy that I am sitting in the break room, and I haven't been to lunch, and I thought I would call."

"You're still up for tomorrow?" he asked, _that_ was the vital point. She agreed she was; they hung up, and both went back to work.

He was still there after Caroline had already packed up and left, saying she had plans. His cell rang again, and he glanced at the wall clock. It was after seven—closer to 7:30—but he still felt nowhere nearer to finishing. But a glance at the screen told him it was _Lizabeth_. That was unexpected, as he usually called her.

"Hi," he said, feeling guilty that it was so late, and he hadn't been thinking of her. She was his motivation for staying late, but he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to rewrite the arc that they had scrapped.

"William, I've found something," she said. He sat up. Lizabeth hadn't greeted him and was like a horse shooting out of a gate.

"What did you find? What's it about?"

"More bit-coin stuff," she answered. "But it concerns you too."

"I don't know _anything_ about bit-coins," he said as he made a fist. His usually predictable girlfriend had kicked him in the gut.

"Like before, when we talked, it's been a busy day." He thought she wasn't making sense or was so worried that she wasn't explaining herself well. "When I got home, I decided to do more research about this bit-coin offering, out of curiosity. All the guys today said it was a _local_ offering from a team in Merton. And since I've seen it grow over the past months, I decided to look it up."

"Yes," he murmured, though he still didn't understand.

"Bit-coin or any cryptocurrency is confusing about how it works, and I won't go into that, but this backer has quite an offering. It's almost a story, an _implausible _story, one you wouldn't believe," she continued.

"A stock offering that is a story?" he was confused.

"Yes. This offering is for a cryptocurrency called Ruggecoin, which its founders say is based on a lost California gold hoard. They _claim _to have unearthed it. In 1892, two brothers, the Ruggles brothers, held up a stagecoach like in all Westerns, killed the handsome armed escort, and ran off. One of the brothers was shot and fell behind, and the other, who had the strongbox with the gold coins, buried it thinking his brother was dead. They both ended up being captured."

"But they never found the box with the gold coins?" William guessed.

"No, and the one brother never divulged the secret where he buried the box. I wonder if he might have planned on using its location to bargain for his life, but I think there were hard feelings against these two brothers as they were described as handsome, charming men, and many in town resented them. They never came to trial but were lynched. I even found _that_ picture." Lizabeth sounded a little breathless as she spoke.

"But this is about _bit-coins_?" William was suspicious.

"_Yes_, these founders claim to have found the gold coin hoard. They're using it as collateral for their backing, which is making this a very attractive offering. See, _anyone_ can create a cryptocurrency; there are YouTube videos that show you how to set one up in an hour! But you have to get people to _use_ your cryptocurrency to make money off of it. And there's a lot of fraud in it, and mistrust," she explained.

"I see," he murmured, still confused.

"But if you have found a strongbox of 5,000 gold American Eagle coins from 1892, they have a total approximate value of three million dollars. That's enough to make people take note and think that your bit-coin offering is legit and worth investing in."

"Did they recover _all_ of the coins?" was his next question.

"Great question! I wondered that and the website doesn't state how _many_ coins they found. It could be smoke and mirrors, and the pair of them only found a handful," Lizabeth suggested. "Even if you didn't sell them based on their value as collector's items, each gold coin has just under a half of an ounce of gold in it. Given the current price of gold, that's about $635 a coin."

"Are they offering a gold coin with each stock purchased?" William thought he had a headache as his forehead was so wrinkled.

Lizabeth laughed. "I think they're creating this beautiful illusion that they want people to buy into, that an investor _might_ obtain some golden ticket, or rather a gold coin, if they purchase shares in their bit-coin offering. But no, that isn't part of the dividend. But there are two classes of shares like I said during lunch: one if you purchase regular shares, the other if you are those miner/shareowners as you then get a different class of dividend."

His producer/storyteller's brain was following all this with the idea of its becoming a future production. Still, William settled back in his chair as he remembered that she had said this was related to _him_ in some way. He asked that question, "how does this concern me?"

"The company's name is Pemberley, LLC," she answered. The pain in the front of his forehead intensified. He reached up to rub there and used his thumb and little finger to massage at his temples as he contemplated such a coincidence; she continued. "You said _Pemberley_ was the name of your family home. I thought they _had_ to be connected, so I looked through all the business filings. It's amazing what you can find on the internet (and what stays hidden). Your _Cousin Anne_ is one of the founders, along with Georgiana Darling."

His stomach cramped up then; lunch had been a long time ago, but it wasn't hunger now. "My _cousin_ is doing a bit-coin offering?" William managed to say because he felt he should acknowledge Lizabeth somehow, though he didn't feel like speaking at all. She seemed to understand him as she didn't respond, but let the silence wash over him as he thought about his often mysterious cousin.

"I have wondered how she would fare if my aunt's land sale didn't go through," he began once he was ready to talk. "And I've known she has dabbled in stocks before, so she is familiar with buying and selling. But I don't know enough about bit-coin or cryptocurrency to comment."

"Anyone who watches YouTube can learn, as I said, though I suspect you wouldn't be successful. _Those_ posts are by the get-rich-quick types who want you to buy _their_ bit-coin or _their_ book or just click on their ads," she commented.

"But Anne is smart, almost genius-level smarts. I can see her figuring out the math or accounting behind how cryptocurrency works and creating her own. What I don't understand is this whole lost gold thing," he remarked.

"The tale is true," Lizabeth insisted. "I told you, I found the picture of the two brothers after they had been lynched." (***see my A/N)

"But I don't understand how she would have found the gold? Or why use such a story?"

"You're the story expert!" Lizabeth exclaimed, sounding frustrated. "You should understand that! It makes the offering that much more appealing. And maybe she used a metal detector and had luck and found the gold cache!"

"Seems improbable after a hundred years," he murmured; William was still rubbing his head.

"I agree. I think she and her friend might have discovered a few coins and are conjuring them into an entire hoard," she suggested.

Silence crackled again on the line between them. He didn't believe that Lizabeth had an underhanded reason for calling him to tell him about Anne's business dealings. Her interest had, after all, begun with all those slightly creepy men coming into her workplace, and been a shared topic between them for many months. Her discoveries today had been the result of what she did best: research. It just happened that it now affected _him_. But how? How was this affecting him _exactly_?

"I don't know why she's created a cryptocurrency and is offering stock options." William broke the silence again. "I don't know if it's my business to ask why or be concerned. With my Aunt Catherine, it's a different matter as she asks for my help. But it isn't like there is an issue here." He stopped.

"No. I agree. There isn't an issue or a reason to interfere." He thought he heard the voice of experience speaking. A woman who had many other people step in and interfere in her life because there were issues that concerned them or they felt a reason to offer advice, even if there were none.

"What I don't know is how this affects my aunt." He paused. "I agree. I shouldn't interfere in Anne's business, but am I going to have Aunt Catherine calling me just as much as your mother calls you?"

Lizabeth laughed, which he had hoped she would. "I believe from what little I know about your aunt; she will."

"I'm wondering if I shouldn't come up to Merton," he mused.

"I'm prepared to attempt the drive to LA," she countered.

"But I may be on the receiving end of a phone call demanding my help. I should anticipate that and come up tomorrow, and stay through Sunday."

"You're not going to try to talk your cousin out of it?"

"No," he said. "Anne's hard-headed. If she's made up her mind, then she's made up her mind. But I got the sense from my last discussion with her that if Aunt Catherine were destitute, she wouldn't give her a penny to help her out."

"And your aunt's life-style: she couldn't change it or amend it?" Lizabeth asked.

"It would probably kill her, and I don't mean that in some generic way but a literal sense. To give up the country club membership and hobnobbing with the elite of Merton would send her to her grave. She takes pride in being a great lady even if she isn't or never was," he insisted.

They agreed that William would drive up the next morning rather than the reverse. While she had set her mind to attempt the drive, having him come up left her feeling more relaxed. He could hear her relief.

"I can usually make it under four hours. And though I could drive in this evening, if I work late and finish a few things, I will have less to worry about on Monday." Lizabeth said she understood, and they hung up.

But William didn't get back to his arc conundrum. He recreated all the research that had led to her calling him. Though she had said that she had _easily_ found documents, _he _had trouble locating everything that they had discussed. He was even more impressed with her research skills, especially when it came to finding the SEC documents which listed the owners for Pemberley LLC.

Georgiana Darling was a close friend of Anne's from college, and he wondered if they had been planning this since then. But the lure of cryptocurrency had only grown recently, so it was difficult to say that it was something that the two of them had planned in their dorm room. (Georgiana was another member of the Merton elite, like the Fitzwilliams had been, like the Metcalfes, the Deburgs, the Gouldings, and the Wickhams.) It seemed that all the old established families were struggling. Land was no longer a source of income, and the next generation needed to look elsewhere and use their talents to get by.

William imagined a pond, not a large one, but likened Merton to a pond where someone had thrown a few stones in to disrupt the smoothness of its surface, and those ever-spreading circles were now overlapping and competing with each other. He wondered just how related all of those first families of Merton were, and not necessarily by genetics.

* * *

A/N: The lost Ruggles brothers hoard is a true story. I wanted to find a real missing hoard, if possible, to weave into the story. All the details I've included are true. However, don't Google the story unless you believe you can handle the lynching photo. When I wrote this I had my husband give me the current price of gold, but who knows what it is these days with the stock market having gone bonkers. I think the price of gold is one thing that has increased!

Stay-in-Place is getting to me despite Zoom calls and regular phone calls with friends. I am tired of baking, worked on a quilt, written two more chapters for the WWII story, cleaned closets, and dyed my hair pink. I have hit the disagreeable stage and want to stomp back and forth around the house in frustration. At least there are a ton of weeds to pull after all that rain...

Stay safe.


	25. Chapter 25

William overslept, left late, and didn't arrive at Lizabeth's apartment until early Saturday afternoon. She jokingly said she had given up and had to eat lunch without him. But having had a late start, William had eaten on the road. The two of them had been apart for over a week and a half, and despite the blinds not keeping out the sun, and her usual embarrassment, they made love in the afternoon. The rest of their day didn't revolve around talking about Anne and bit-coins or what his aunt would do if she ran out of money. They ignored the issues that had brought him north and focused on time together.

The next morning, they went to a farmer's market after waking. The two of them shopped for food for their assorted meals that day. Initially, Lizabeth had suggested brunch at the hotel, but William said he would teach her to cook.

"It's small," he commented as they parked.

"Anything in Merton has to be small in comparison to Los Angeles," she quipped with a grin. Besides locally raised produce, some stands sold homemade bread or backyard honey or eggs. There was a similar market near his house, though William didn't often get to it on the weekends. He was lucky if he remembered his Saturday errands and wasn't back in the office come Sunday.

They took in the fresh produce and let it dictate what to cook. William lamented that it was early in the year and wished there were tomatoes. At his local market, a wizened old lady had a set-up in her basement and grew them from seeds. He realized he was spoiled in that sense.

Three men were grouped tightly together and blocked a man who sold nuts. The seller didn't look bothered but was distracted by their animated discussion; he wasn't watching passersby attempting to make a sale.

"…can't believe the news," declared a man in a blue shirt and wearing a sports cap.

"I am _never_ surprised by the news," said another who swung a bag of produce in his hand.

"But was this Wickham fellow working on his own? I doubt it. _I_ say there's never smoke without fire," argued a man in gray.

"But credit card fraud! _Here_ in town!" cried the first man. "You read about that stuff in the national news, and you check your credit scores, but I can't believe it originated _here_. He's just a victim of circumstance!"

"He _had_ to have had help. The blurb on the news said that they were using card skimmers to steal credit card numbers and the like from other places, not just here, but all over the state. Hired people who were down on their luck to place the devices at gas stations or ATMs, so Wickham _had_ to have had help!" argued the third man.

"Okay," agreed produce man, "but who's in it with him? He's got these machines, and he hired people for the footwork, but where does this information go or who does he give it to?"

"Don't know," said the man in gray. He pulled out his phone and shook his head. "I doubt we'll have regular alerts from the police about their investigation."

"Yeah, but I doubt it's just going to be local police investigating. Sounds like FBI-level stuff," said the first man, looking intently at his friends.

William pulled his gaze back from the nut stand and the discussion, and looked at Lizabeth. Her eyes were even larger than usual. He held up their bag, which contained new potatoes, spring onions, lettuce, and asparagus as well as eggs and bread.

"I think we're done, and looks like we need to check out the news," he said. She nodded, apparently having no comment to make about what they had overheard.

Once seated in the car, he clicked on his phone to pull up the local news channel's app, but before the app had finished loading, she said, "got it." He looked at her.

"_Local man, George Wickham, was arrested late Saturday night on charges of fraud relating to credit card skimming. Items discovered during a search of his house were taken away. The police department is not commenting at this time about its investigation and whether or not Wickham acted alone or had accomplices in stealing credit card numbers and other personal information through devices secreted in various locations. The police are also not releasing the possible locations of the credit card devices though they did say it was believed to affect just Merton. [Edit: it is now believed to potentially affect other cities in John Muir County.] Authorities encourage citizens to check their credit card statements for possible fraudulent activity."_

She finished reading, then shook her head. "I can't believe it. I've _met_ him, and it doesn't fit with my image. He was friendly, and credit card scams seem so dirty and underhanded!"

William wasn't sure how he felt about the entire situation, but he first put his phone down on the console between them; it bided him a few more seconds. She was correct, and it didn't fit with what he knew of George (and he had known the man longer).

He said, "I agree that it doesn't fit with the image of George Wickham. He's a friendly sort, almost too friendly, _overly eager_, you know?" She nodded her head. "I've always known about him, though I can't explain why, as it's not like we went to school together. He's younger than I am, closer in age to you than me." He stopped to look at her as the mess in his gut was given an added twist as he realized the difference in their ages. Perhaps such a gap was untenable, especially given how _new_ to life and being on her own she was? He was too cynical and too established. She was still so innocent. Had he rushed into this merely because of beautiful eyes—and that hair?

William shook his head before he continued. "George Wickham hasn't had the best breaks in life, but it seemed like he was working hard and had his life together for once. But we can still fall in with the wrong crowd, and they can drag you down."

"You don't think he did this thing, credit card skimming, on his own?" she asked.

"No. He's not clever that way. George wouldn't think of the idea in the first place. However, I can see him improving on the idea and using his charm to get others to work with him on the scheme," he answered, trying to explain George's personality, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to elucidate.

"Eager," Lizabeth said, looking at him. "Anxious too?"

"Yes," he nodded, then frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"As I said, I met him several times." William thought she sounded aloof. Was she growing tired of the discussion? "At _work_." She was frowning back at him, and it came to him that George Wickham had come into the recording office in some official capacity, but that she couldn't mention how or why.

"Ah! I get it. Though now I'm curious why he came into your office. Did he register a fictitious business name?" Her face was placid, and he admired her poker face. "I guess we should get going; we only stopped for coffee this morning. When are you going to get a coffee pot at home?"

"Soon," she assured him. They drove to her apartment, rehashing the same details about this news. "You know, we both assume that he's the guilty person because he's been arrested. But what if he's not?"

William shook his head. "Hard not to consider his background. He's struggled before with having made bad choices. Hard not to think he's continued in the same vein or slipped up, even though he has made a better life for himself recently."

Both of them were hungry, so they cooked an elaborate brunch, nibbling as both couldn't wait to sit down to eat. It was so late that it was more of an early lunch. William noticed that Lizabeth continued to be introspective while they worked. "I am really curious how you know George," he asked as they sat at her small table gorging on eggs, pancakes, and fried potatoes.

"I met him socially _and_ at the office," Lizabeth answered, spearing a small potato. She popped it into her mouth, smiling mischievously as she chewed.

"You won't tell me why he came into the office?" He was intrigued.

She frowned. "No. Before, when I shared information with you about my work, I thought I wouldn't ever see you again—or in a limited capacity. But I'm worried about his family now, how this will affect them."

"He doesn't have any family," was William's immediate response. Lizabeth didn't say anything in return.

* * *

They kept an ear out for news updates as the afternoon progressed, but finally turned their collective energy to sharing information about the RuggeCoin stock offering, which was to transpire the next day. There wasn't much new information that she hadn't uncovered.

"I'm still amazed at how organized and vast this offering is. If Anne does well, she could make ten million, probably more," William said as he read articles about other bit-coin offerings.

"She and Georgiana still have to work to get people to _use_ their cryptocurrency in place of others or cash or credit cards. Have you seen how many have failed? I don't think it will be like your cousin gets this huge check and will be worry-free after tomorrow," she remarked.

He leaned back in his place on the couch, away from his laptop. "I still don't know what I should do, if anything." Lizabeth stared at him; she had her laptop balanced in identical fashion on her lap. "I'm convinced Aunt Catherine doesn't know anything about what Anne is up to. She's always just in her little bubble, reading magazines which detail the lifestyles of the rich and famous as if that's her reality, when it isn't."

"You're remarkable to be so concerned about her."

"If I don't somehow mitigate this or forewarn her, she'll be calling me like your mother does." They locked eyes as they shared a moment.

"So," Lizabeth looked down at her laptop and traced a finger on the touchpad. "I made a sort of stand." She paused, still playing with her computer. "Maybe you need to not worry so much about your aunt and let things work out. You said you were more worried about _Anne_, and it seems that Anne has things under control." She looked up again.

"You mean I need to stop being an infuriating man who assumes only _he_ knows what's right? I know, my arrogance is showing," he said with a smile. She smiled back. "What was the point of my driving north this weekend, then?"

"Me," Lizabeth whispered. They set their laptops aside and focused on each other and not bit-coins or the news for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

William didn't have a reason to stay in Merton. Lizabeth watched him pack up after they had eaten the dinner he had cooked. Ostensibly, they had shared the responsibilities of fixing the food that they had purchased, but it had really been him giving her instructions.

"I'll call," he said as he zipped up his bag.

"I imagine after tomorrow we'll have a lot to discuss," she said.

"I would call even without those issues. We always talk," he asserted.

Somehow having additional worries made her feel on-edge, though she didn't give voice to that sentiment. "Yes, we always talk," she agreed. Perhaps her smile was overly bright.

William frowned. "What's wrong?"

"It's just that you always call me. It's like I'm not allowed to call you in case it interrupts your work," she frowned back. It hadn't been true on Friday when she called about his cousin. But all the times before, Lizabeth had sat around and waited for William to phone _her_.

His face became a blank then as he stared at her. "I…I think you're right. It has been one-sided. I've only fit you in when my schedule permits, which isn't fair." They stood in her bedroom, staring at each other. "I admit I haven't been flexible."

"You said that upfront," Lizabeth stated. "I knew that given your job and responsibilities, though I think that the reality is different than my expectations. I still thought I would see you every weekend. Some nights we only talk for ten minutes."

"Because I'm busy and need to get back to work, right?"

"Right," she nodded.

"I don't know what to say," he said slowly. "I'm a busy man. I feel like I'm making as much time as I can for you. But things at work have suffered." He paused, then said, "you make me happy when we're together."

"I'm glad," she answered with slight hesitation. Lizabeth wasn't sure what the issue was or why it had been such a wonderful weekend, and it was ending, not on a sour note, but with hesitancy. Was it just that there were kinks in the machinery, and these were signs that theirs was not a relationship that would work? That no matter how compatible you are with somebody, or how happy you were together, other factors worked against the two of you.

"Well, all I can say is call; don't hesitate if you feel the need," he said. "I can't guarantee that I will be free to answer, but I don't want you to feel that I am avoiding you." She shook her head and then watched as he grabbed his duffel bag. He used his free arm to clasp her around the waist. They made it to the front door, where they spent their usual long time saying goodbye.

* * *

On her way into work the next day, Lizabeth listened to the news on the radio. There was another iteration about George Wickham's arrest with additional information about links between him and previous arrests of men who had been suspected of installing those credit card skimming devices. She hadn't paid attention to any of those news items in the past, but they all fit a particular profile: people who were down on their luck and being paid to drive around and install those tiny machines at places like gas stations or ATMs to steal credit card numbers.

Her mind, however, wasn't entirely on the news but on her relationship with William. Had they reached a point that despite being compatible in many ways, the fact that they lived so far apart meant that they weren't intended for each other? She tried to discern how she felt about him, but Lizabeth believed that when it came to feelings, it wasn't something she was good at discovering and defining.

She was often _told_ how she should feel or told how _others_ felt. She wasn't good at self-discovery as far as her own emotions. It might take more time to discover how strongly she felt about this relationship with William Darcy. She thought about Jane and Charles. They seemed destined to break up because distance didn't allow them to be together in the way they wanted. Lizabeth really needed to check in with her friend.

Once home, she checked on the news. The Merton Daily had a profile on Anne Deburg and Georgiana Darling, "Local Women Doing Well," which detailed their initial stock offering. They weren't so big that they got to ring the bell to open or close the stock exchange. Still, the article indicated that the IPO had taken in an estimated fourteen million dollars, with after-hours trading being voluminous. Lizabeth was impressed.

There were leftovers to eat, and she reheated dinner, played with Kitty, and waited for William to call. She knew she _could_ call him, but didn't feel the need to and let that feeling guide her. She had no comment; it wasn't his money. She didn't think she could congratulate him on _Anne's_ IPO, and she didn't want to discuss George Wickham. The more she thought about it, the more Lizabeth also didn't want to talk about the two of them and this new awkwardness either.

When William did call, it was after eight. He immediately asked, "did you see?" He sounded excited.

"Yes," she answered. "Very impressive." There was a pause on the phone after they finished discussing Anne's stock offering. Lizabeth finally asked after his day.

"The same, how was yours?" he said.

"The same," she replied.

"No last-minute fictitious business filings?" William asked.

"It was too late," Lizabeth remarked.

"Not that it would stop some people from trying," he quipped.

"No. The leftovers were good," she offered.

"I'm glad."

"Have you figured out what to do with the arc?" It was her turn to ask questions.

"Not really. Caroline and I have differing ideas. We haven't decided." He sounded sharp; she had the idea that he didn't want to discuss _that_ topic.

"I'll let you go," she said then. "I hope you figure out what you need to do soon."

"Thanks. Good night." He was abrupt, and the phone went dead. Lizabeth almost felt like crying then. The call had been difficult. She thought back to their first meeting. William Darcy had been rude. Perhaps _that_ was more the measure of him. But she also considered how warmly he discussed his work and his family; he was a complex man just like everyone was multifaceted.

Lizabeth didn't feel like reading, but she let Kitty curl up in the bed next to her, and the purring lulled her to sleep.

* * *

In the middle part of the day, Lydia Phillips (or was that Wickham now?) came in. She looked as if she hadn't slept in days. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, but it hadn't been tied neatly and looked like it would fall apart with only a slight shake of her head.

Lizabeth couldn't anticipate what Lydia needed but stared at her visitor from her seat at the desk. Lydia came up to the counter and looked Lizabeth in the eyes. She asked to speak to Judge Metcalfe.

"Oh! I'll see if he's here."

"My name is Lydia…Wickham." She was still getting used to her new name, apparently.

"I remembered," Lizabeth offered. "I'll check." She stepped up to knock on the judge's door. When she mentioned the visitor's name, he didn't appear confused or surprised but asked that she step in. Lizabeth escorted Lydia back to the judge's office, burning with curiosity about the reasons for her being there. Lydia stayed with the judge for quite a while. But after she left, Lizabeth got up the courage up to tackle Judge Metcalfe about the visit. He had poked his head out to say that he was going to leave early because Anthony had a doctor's appointment.

"Can I ask why Lydia came in to see you?" She looked not quite in his eyes; perhaps she was staring at his left shoulder.

He paused; Lizabeth thought he was going to tell her to mind her business. "She just married George Wickham."

"Yes," Lizabeth prompted.

"George has got himself into a little bit of trouble."

"I read about that." She nodded.

"He's like family." She wondered if this was a situation where the upper crust of Merton society looked out for one another. But Judge Metcalfe continued. "George was married to my stepdaughter."

Lizabeth blinked in shock as she had to think about his words. She didn't know that the judge had been married before. "Andrea Younge, is your stepdaughter?"

"Yes. She's Mimi's daughter." Lizabeth was sure her eyes bugged wide then. The Andrea who had come by that one day to speak to the Judge had looked older than Lizabeth, and yet Mimi had just given birth to a baby. She thought Mimi was either older than she believed or had given birth to Andrea at quite a young age, but Lizabeth didn't ask either of those questions.

"Were you able to help Lydia?"

The Judge smiled very slightly. "I think I have steered her in the right direction. As a judge, I don't practice law anymore, but I still have a lot of connections and can help her find counsel for her husband."

"That's good to hear," she replied. He said he had to go and walked back into his office.

Lizabeth wondered about calling William and sharing that information but didn't think that such a disclosure warranted calling him in the afternoon. She would wait for the evening.

But at the end of the day, as she turned the key in the recording office's door, Lizabeth thought about Jane Sweet and Mary Abel. Mary usually worked on Tuesdays, and Jane might be there.

Both of her friends were in the hotel bar. Joe handed Lizabeth his drink of the night, and she went to talk to the two women, asking, "how are you?"

Jane said, "great!" with a bright smile. Lizabeth thought she was wearing a new shade of lipstick as the color seemed to stand out. But her friend then launched into a minute account of her work over the past two weeks. She had been busy as the hotel prepared for many weddings as well as several conferences. Lizabeth heard all the plans for the first three weddings that were to be held in the hotel in May.

She finally glanced over at Mary, who had kept up her soft playing and questioned Jane's exuberance with raised eyebrows. Mary tilted her head to one side as if ignorant of the cause, but she was undoubtedly aware that their friend's behavior was a little off.

When there was a pause, Lizabeth glanced from Mary back to Jane and asked, "and Charles? Are you two still seeing each other?"

"I don't know." Jane's face was still open and engaging, but deceptive to the words that followed. "It's difficult with us being so far apart and our lives being in such different worlds." Her lips parted, and Lizabeth watched as Jane smiled before sharing that they hadn't spoken since the previous weekend. While he was all charm and contentment most of the time, Charles had been angry about having to always come up to visit her. "But I hate Los Angeles. I have my life here, my work, my friends. He has his work there. I think we're through."

Something twisted in Lizabeth's gut at this speech. She felt on the edge of tears and fully expected Jane to cry. But the event planner sat between her and Mary with her pasted smile and shrugged her shoulders. Lizabeth didn't know if she was hurting inside but not showing it or if she was over Charles. So she asked.

"I'm not over him. We're compatible in many ways, except for location," said Jane. The first crack then appeared, and Lizabeth saw pain flash in Jane's eyes. "But neither of us is willing to budge, so I need to stuff down the pain and disappointment and unhappiness and keep on working. After all, weddings are _happy_ events, and in less than two weeks, I have the first of three to handle."

"You have that big one in June as well," Mary remarked.

"Yeah, the Jenkinson wedding. That's going to be huge. This may be my last calm week," Jane agreed.

"You're okay, though?" Lizabeth prompted. She wasn't sure what else to ask and had no advice to give.

"Yeah." Jane nodded her head. "I'm okay. We need to have that final talk that we're going our separate ways. But," her lips came together, and she bit down hard for a moment. The bright color on her lips stood out intensely. "I will come through this just fine."

"I should go home and feed the cat then," said Lizabeth.

Jane's smile faded, but something lit up in her eyes. "Thanks for stopping by."

Lizabeth smiled, waved, and walked out to her car, wondering if she and William were heading in the same direction. He said it made him happy to spend time with her; she thought she felt the same. But _finding_ time was a different matter, and the distance between them _was_ an issue. She wondered if she should bring it up along with the news about Lydia's visit to the judge, and that George had been married to Mimi's daughter.

But he never called her as she sat on the couch with Kitty. The awkwardness of their friend's relationship ate away at her. Lizabeth wondered again about her doubts.

* * *

She stared at her phone on Wednesday night after she had eaten, played with the cat, and read all the news reports she cared to read. (A/N: _long sigh_) Charlene had loaned her a book weeks ago, and it sat next to her. She used it as a place to drum her fingers, which echoed under them as she worked a rapid tattoo on top of its cover.

Despite tackling many firsts in the past year, dealing with a relationship that seemed to be going sour wasn't something she wanted to face. Lizabeth didn't want to pick up the phone and call him. If he called her, she would answer, but despite their happy weekends, it had only been less than a month that they had been seeing each other. What connection did they have, truly? Her heart sank. Was this _just sex_?

Her text notification sounded. She drummed her fingers even harder on the book before stopping with a last grating sound as her fingernails made contact with the cover and not the pads of her fingers. She grabbed her phone off the coffee table.

_Work meeting tonight. Can't call, sorry_

She wondered if such a text warranted a reply. But she was her mother's daughter after all.

_Sorry too_

Lizabeth clicked send then stared at the words wondering if she needed to say something more. But she didn't know what to say. _Call me tomorrow? We'll talk soon? See you?_ None seemed appropriate, so she tucked the phone in her pocket, picked up Charlene's book, and went to bed to read.

* * *

Thursday was slow to begin with. But a woman interested in doing a voter registration drive came in to pick her brain, which helped to fill her morning—and Charlene was less self-absorbed and didn't cancel lunch. Lizabeth wondered if she and Lyle had cooled it like Jane and Charles.

"We've spent practically every minute together," Charlene began as soon as they managed to get a few bites into their meal. "I think…I think it's serious."

_Bonding then_, Lizabeth thought. "What does serious mean?" she prompted. Charlene was more than happy to comply and detailed how compatible she and Lyle were (sharing all the ways they found common ground and fit together) and that they were considering moving in together.

Lizabeth said what she hoped were encouraging and supportive words. Her friend indicated that it was too late for either of them to give notice at their apartments _that_ month, but by the first of June, they could do it.

When she was making her slow way back to the office, she was struck by how easily her friend had partnered with someone. She contrasted Charlene and Lyle with Jane and Charles, who were 'compatible in many ways, except for location' according to her other friend's estimation.

Lizabeth wondered where on some relationship spectrum she and William would land or actually _were_, just then. Why couldn't she have dated more! She felt that if she had more experience, she would understand herself better. Though maybe self-discovery wasn't something you mastered by a certain age, it was a life-long process. You changed with time and experience. So as a person, you need to be sure to check in with yourself every once in a while. She might not be any wiser about how she felt about William Darcy if she had dated ten or fifty men in college or had ever fallen in love before.

Lizabeth stopped suddenly. She was blocking the exit from the parking garage, so she skipped forward a few feet when someone honked who wanted to pull out, but she realized that she was in love. She had never been before. None of her college dates had ever lasted long enough even to form friendships, and Edgar Stone had been an ornament for her arm, that proverbial feather in her cap, but she had never had strong feelings for him. Lizabeth had certainly never been in love with him. But there was something about William Darcy that made her insides turn to a swirling mass of goo. She felt stupid and starry-eyed and breathless when she was with him (and every other cliché about those initial pangs of love).

But what did that mean? What was she to do? Her eyes narrowed as she started walking again and rounded the corner to the front doors. No one waited for her that afternoon, not even Doug. Once back at her desk, Lizabeth lost herself in wondering how William felt about _her_. Perhaps she was merely a passing fancy. He had to have had many girlfriends. He was older, hadn't he said he was past thirty? Her stomach cramped up in wondering if he would be like those young men in college who never lasted.

By the time she turned out the overhead bank of lights to go home, Lizabeth had convinced herself that she and William shared few interests, that the age difference was insurmountable, and though the sex had been great, she had nothing to compare it to. The two of them were destined to break up. Her inclination was to run up to the hotel, but she feared she would drink too much as she had, once before. Instead, she stopped at a liquor store and purchased two bottles of wine. (Just who _was_ she portraying that night?)

She _did_ eat dinner, at least, before she cracked open the first bottle as it had to chill. But Lizabeth gave into despair. She _could_ learn from experience, so she didn't open the second, and being at home meant she had a cat and videos to distract her from her meditations.

* * *

A/N: when the pot boils over, it doesn't just spill over on the stove, it splatters so high it hits the ceiling and falls down to cover the floor. There have been no red herrings, every little hint that I've woven in the background will come to light. Beginning Monday there will be angst. Given these interesting times, please consider waiting until Wednesday, April 29 when I will post Chapter 30 to come back if you feel you will be too anxious to carry on through the denouement of this story.

I just want to go shopping. Window shopping, like _girlie_ window-shopping. To go to Target and browse the aisles to find some treasure I didn't know I needed-and to get out of the house. Hope all is well.

As far as location: this fictitious Merton lies somewhere north of Fresno, like Chowchilla so William can use I-5 or 99 when coming up from LA, depending on traffic.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Angst today. If this is too much for you to contemplate, come back to this story on April 29 when I post Chapter 30 and then you can read through all the craziness and catch up.

As one of my writing coaches, Jeanne, calls it, this is where we, as readers, face the "Dark Night of the Soul" along with the protagonist before everything is wrapped up neatly with a bow.

But first, as an author, I have to make you think everything is going to fall apart without any possibility of resolution.

* * *

Lizabeth was running late for work the next morning but figured she had a good excuse. However, traffic was unusually heavy. Leaving past her usual time didn't _precisely_ account for the excessive traffic, so she turned on the car radio as the clock ticked closer to eight. There were always traffic reports '_at_ _3 and 8 in the 10s' _on the local news station.

"_Police activity has shut down Cumberland Avenue at Hemlock. The Sylvan Commercial Office Building has been cordoned off. Avoid the area and use alternate routes. No further information is being released at this time_."

Cumberland and Hemlock were north of her, almost two miles away. It seemed odd that it would affect the traffic in her section of town, but she sighed and watched her car's clock flash 8:00.

She didn't open the office doors until 8:07. It was the latest she had ever arrived at work. Doug chided her about being out drinking and having trouble waking up. She admitted that she had, but then mentioned the traffic issue.

"I live out west, so I wasn't snarled in it." Doug showed no curiosity and turned to go through his usual morning routine.

Lizabeth attempted to focus on paperwork. All of the fictitious business filings from the previous week had to be checked in the newspaper to see if advertisements had been placed. But logging onto the Merton Daily proved to be a mistake.

Though it was a small-town daily paper with a bare-bones staff, it was still a _newspaper_ with _reporters_. And Jason Jones was at the scene of the police activity giving live updates. Jason looked disheveled in a short news clip as he stood in front of the Sylvan Office Complex, which was leased by Spectre Software Security.

His first broadcast indicated that the police had a warrant and were searching the Spectre company headquarters for items or information relating to George Wickham's case. After all, George had been employed by Spectre Software until his arrest. Jason disclosed the fact that George had been summarily dismissed as his contract with the company allowed them to fire him with or without cause.

He gave a _second_ broadcast, however, which disclosed that the police had asked some of the senior officers of the company to come to police headquarters 'for questioning,' but that no arrests had been made.

It was after she listened to the second broadcast that Troy Metcalfe poked his head around his door to peer out at her. "Interesting goings-on. I've got my police scanner on. Have you been following the news?"

Lizabeth wasn't sure if she wanted to admit how much she had been reading or listening to the news and not doing her job. "Yes. The traffic was terrible coming into town. This seems related to George Wickham's arrest."

"They've arrested three more employees of the firm that George worked for, and are looking for others who have gone to ground, according to the police scanner," said the judge.

"Really?" she exclaimed, and couldn't help the curiosity in her voice.

"Seems there's a lot more going on than credit card skimming," said Metcalfe. "But the police aren't saying _why_ they're rounding up these people (or looking for them). They merely say they're 'just doing their job.'"

"Do you think this is going to help George, or was he part of a bigger…ring?" she couldn't think of a better way to put it.

"Not certain. I haven't spoken to George; he's still in custody. But from what Lydia told me, he's been transferred to federal prison as the FBI has been pulled in," the judge explained. His eyes shone with intrigue, though his face looked concerned. Perhaps he was just as curious as Lizabeth.

"The FBI! That's serious stuff." Her mind whirled at the possibilities. "What do you think is happening? And they've _arrested_ some of the employees? I met some people from Spectre once when I was on a date with Edgar at the country club. George had invited them out to dinner, and then Ed and I ended up joining the party." She thought back to that night. It was practically the first day she had met William. Back when he had been belligerent and insulting. Lizabeth swallowed as that wasn't helping soothe her concerns about the two of them to remember how he had initially treated her.

"Given the amount of chatter on my police scanner, I'd say it's big. So, what does this company do?" Typically, Troy Metcalfe stayed hidden away, but he took another step out into the general recording office area.

She frowned. "They make software, security software for businesses, though I don't know anything more. But there was a lot of talk that night at the country club about real estate. Ed and I ended up going home separately as he and the Spectre crowd left together to go look at some property so they could consider a commercial real estate deal."

"The Goulding property," said a voice. They turned to see Doug had swiveled his chair around and was leaning against the desk which held the county terminal. He had been listening and had raised eyebrows as he grinned at them. "Ed Stone and Spectre and even your uncle, Lizabeth, have all formed a holding company with many other local investors to get Old Man Goulding's plot finally developed."

"Doesn't that seem like a stretch?" she asked. "Now that I think about it, a company that makes software doesn't usually branch out into commercial real estate development. They might consider _renting_ space for their own needs, but it doesn't sound like that was what was going on with the Goulding property."

"They were the driving force behind getting Goulding to finally agree to it, after decades of his refusing to let the land be developed. Besides, they brought in some big investors, anonymous angel investors, and rallied locals to pitch in. There were varying levels of investment, so there would be varying levels of reward," Doug explained.

"Sounds like that bit-coin offering with different dividends paid depending on whether you were a miner or not," said Lizabeth. Doug nodded, but Judge Metcalfe looked confused. "Another crazy local happening," she waved a hand.

"I guess I'll go back and listen to my scanner," Troy Metcalfe murmured. "If you discover something, come knock."

"I will," Lizabeth agreed.

She went back to her desk. She was at _work_ and _should_ work, but she was itching to search for more information about this real estate development. Lizabeth also wanted more information about the arrests and with the police talking to 'persons of interest'—those people from Spectre Software. But she was an hourly employee, and though her palms itched to grab the mouse, she set aside her previous morning project and went to retrieve a map book. Scanning old maps would be her safest bet to keep her curiosity in check.

Lizabeth hadn't planned to eat in but gave rein to her curiosity once she locked the doors at twelve. The judge hadn't come back out, so it seemed that whatever chatter was on the police scanner had calmed down, and there wasn't anything new _there_. Jason Jones had nothing more to report on the Merton Daily website, though there was a written news item that detailed what his vlogs had described. There had been one edit that there _were_ arrests and that it was a multi-jurisdiction affair.

What Lizabeth found of interest was that there was no mention of George Wickham. None of the reports tied this new activity back to his arrest. She wondered if his undertakings were separate from whatever was going on.

While she had done some research for William about the developers, she hadn't really looked at the documents. But she quickly scanned through them, reading about the LLC which had been formed to develop Old Man Goulding's property: Ground-Up Holdings. There had even been a small Merton Daily news article about local investors, "Old Families Renewing Ties" had been the headline. It contained the same cross-section of names which she had recently become familiar with, knowing that they were the families that had been long established in Merton. Goulding, Darling, Fitzwilliam, and Deburg, and even as Doug mentioned: _Gardiner_.

Her uncle was one of the smaller investors, as well as Edgar Stone, II and Edgar Stone, III. Even a _Lucas_ was listed. Charlene had talked about her father being the last mayor of Merton before the residents voted to change the form of the city government. It was a vast cross-section of people, a lot she had seen at the Metcalfe's gender reveal. Only Troy Metcalfe and his good friend Judge Haggerston were missing as far as she could ascertain on that investor's list.

It was an enormous amount of money that was going to be put towards the development of a tech park and residential lots. The expected return on that investment must have those investors' eyes popping out of their heads as they considered the long-term goals. They probably all thought that they would be as rich as Croesus.

* * *

She felt guilty for not immediately going home, but Kitty didn't demand food these days. Most often, the cat wanted a lap (or even hid), so Lizabeth went to the hotel bar. It was a little more crowded than usual, with the chatter of voices talking and bouncing all around; she wondered if the occupants were discussing the local news. She nodded to Joe, who passed her a drink, and went to sit next to Mary.

"Is the talk here all about the arrests this morning?" Lizabeth asked.

"Mostly," Mary answered. "There _are_ some people who don't pay attention and only come to drink and flirt."

"For once the Merton Daily is _the_ news to read," Lizabeth remarked, sipping her drink. She needed to be careful because she hadn't eaten much at lunch.

"I've been impressed with Jason and his past investigative stories, so I wasn't surprised that he was on the scene and on top of this one," said Mary. "I look forward to seeing tomorrow's headline."

Lizabeth twirled her drink around in her fingers and then dared to ask. "Is Jason Jane's ex?" For once, Jane Sweet wasn't in the bar, decompressing after her workday.

"He is," said Mary.

"They broke up a month before she got together with Charles Lee?" she asked next. Mary nodded. Lizabeth thought about that, bouncing from one relationship to another. But hadn't she done that, dumped Ed and dated William soon after? She supposed that if the heart took you in that direction, then that is where you should go. "In some ways, it seems a shame as Jane's biggest quibble is that Charles lives so far away, and Jason lives here."

"I think there were other issues," Mary remarked as she continued to play. Her fingers always strummed the keys. "How are you doing? You seem _confused_."

Lizabeth thought that was _exactly_ how she felt. "I am," she agreed. It was interesting when someone gave her a word or a label that helped to clarify things and give her perspective. "I _am_ confused. Things with William seemed exciting and new and interesting. He's a producer from LA, which is thrilling. But he hasn't called in days. "

"Sounds like the Hollywood type," Mary said. "But that's neither here nor there. What do you want?"

"I wanted to date," she began, "since it was something I wasn't allowed to do. It was why I dated Ed. It was like a dessert I was told I couldn't have."

"But Ed turned out to be rotten food," Mary quipped.

Lizabeth laughed. "That's a good way to characterize him!"

"And William?" the pianist prompted.

"He's a great cook." She couldn't help but smile.

"I think that statement has multiple meanings," said Mary. "Do you like him?"

"I do. But…I am beginning to think that _proximity_ is important."

"That's something to consider then," said her confessor and entertainer all rolled into one.

Lizabeth took a few more sips of her drink and listened to Mary play for a few more minutes before she headed home. The conundrum about the software company had been chased from her mind but now she was thinking about what she wanted from William Darcy, her date or lover or _something_ of three-plus weeks now.

* * *

The cat had been fed, and she was in the middle of attempting another recipe by following a video when her cell phone rang. It was William. Her heart twisted as she thought about how inconvenient the timing. A part of her was tempted to let it go to voicemail. She hadn't talked to him since Monday, and that awkward conversation still rankled.

Lizabeth wiped a sticky hand on her pants to press 'answer,' then immediately hit 'speaker' and shouted, "I'm cooking!"

"Bad timing," he mused.

"Kinda," she was noncommittal.

"I'm on my way to a party to meet up with Caro. There's a writer who's supposed to attend that she thinks we should speak to." He paused, his voice trailed off. "Anyways, sorry. I've been distracted this week with work." She thought he didn't sound contrite; he was obviously on the road.

"I know that arc has been bothering you," she agreed, adding to the ambient noise as she ran the tap and washed her hands.

"The replacement writer didn't pan out. We're coming up against some hard deadlines. While we can take all the time we want with filming, there's still a whole other set of responsibilities to meet as CinemaReady has promotional deadlines of their own if we're to make their Fall lineup or even their Spring."

"I guess they want to know if you'll deliver on time?" Lizabeth thought dinner wasn't sounding appetizing now.

"And clips for them, and just how many episodes there will be. If I don't come out of the gate strong with _Bella Montaña_, I will never get a second season," he explained.

"Sounds like long hours, long days," she said.

"That's the thing…" William paused. "I'm not sure that I see coming north for a while in the foreseeable future." Those car noises echoed on the line between them as Lizabeth digested what he had said and wondered what the underlying meaning was.

"_How long_?" It was a logical question, right?

"A month, probably more. With CinemaReady's deadlines looming and us being so behind, I can't give a better estimate."

He wasn't asking her to come to visit. He wasn't saying how much he enjoyed spending time with her. William was carefully explaining how busy he was and giving her perfectly _valid_ reasons for their not seeing each other for a _month_. It seemed a kind way of breaking up with her, one she had read about in all those romance books. (Lizabeth read _both_ modern and historical ones.)

"I understand." Here was the point where she could take charge of her life. What did she want from him? She wanted proximity, while her job was relatively easy, it gave her no time off. His job required him to work eighty or a hundred hours a week, and he focused wholly on it but had flexibility as to his environment.

But that still didn't seem to make them compatible. In the weeks that they had been together, Lizabeth wondered if the highs were worth the lows. There was no device to measure such things. But she also decided that she didn't want to be on the receiving end of more disappointing phone calls like this one.

"I understand," she repeated. "I think we should break things off between us. Not that we have an us; we never talked about it." Lizabeth pulled on some inner strength. "We've just been, you know, seeing each other when you're in town. But now that you're not going to be…we should break things off. I think the distance thing is too much of an issue."

Wheels and motors and the traffic sound of a car speeding along a freeway echoed in her ear for a long time, it seemed, before he merely said, "okay."

"Best of luck with _Bella Montaña_," she said.

"Thanks. Best to you," said William. "Bye." He hung up.

Lizabeth carefully put away her cooking utensils and ingredients; food no longer had any appeal. She was numb but didn't wish to be. She wanted to cry and rant and scream and be distraught, but feeling those emotions and expressing them was something to work on. Her mother had feelings; Lizabeth wasn't allowed them.

Sometimes, she didn't want to be Lizabeth, but another person. Why had she been saddled with such a name that people like LuAnn Stone called her Lizzybeth. She couldn't even use her middle name as a backup; no woman she'd ever met, despite the trend for boys' names for girls, had ever been called _Todd_. But maybe she could go by _Elizabeth_? Well-known, never out of fashion, and what people called her half the time anyway when she first introduced herself.

She curled up on her bed; Kitty joined her. She thought that an _Elizabeth_ would be upset about such a disastrous love affair. She was correct and started to bawl.

* * *

William had walked down to his car after leaving Lizabeth's apartment on Sunday with his phone in-hand. The number of emails staring at him had been unprecedented. He ended up sitting in his car for over an hour, answering the critical ones before even turning the engine on, and heading for home.

His mind whirled with the issues that awaited him, but somewhere on I-5, as he stopped for gas, he thought about Lizabeth and their conversation as he had headed out the door—that he always called her during the few free moments he carved out. But _damn it_, he was busy, a _producer_; she was simply a clerk in an office. He knew that he was annoyed, though he also wondered why she didn't _just_ _call_ him if she wanted to. Caroline had no trouble picking up the phone to get a hold of him. Neither had past girlfriends or lovers. Why couldn't Lizabeth be like them?

On Monday, he almost lost his mind, though he did lose his temper many times. He had arrived home after twelve but hadn't gone to bed until well past one as there had been more emails to handle. He was in the office by 7:30. It was a day of handling issues where he got minimal traction, and few answered phone calls or return emails. Caroline was of some help, and probably the only _real_ help. She remembered things like stopping for lunch (getting Alexis to go out for something).

But he followed the stock market news that day, and his cousin's initial stock offering. RuggeCoin was very well received and exceeded most of the predictions. Somehow, though, it put him in a foul mood whenever he picked up the phone to call someone. Anne's offering swelled from five million to ten, then to over fourteen as he watched, amazed at how quickly investors took to her bit-coin offering. She was set now. He should be happy that he no longer needed to be concerned about her financial future. But William spent the rest of the day barking at everyone around him.

He was still in the office when his cousin called. It seemed she had the same thought. "Now you can stop worrying about me," was her opening salvo.

"You've done really well!" He could at least show his excitement for her.

"You should have bought shares. You would have tripled your money, day one." Anne laughed. It seemed uncharacteristic of her to laugh. "But maybe I didn't mention my little venture?"

"I knew about it because my g…friend mentioned it to me." He wasn't sure why he censored that tidbit, and were they girlfriend and boyfriend or just dating? "You met her; she lives up there."

"I recall — the one you brought by recently. I'm surprised your 'friend' has lasted this long. But the IPO—we may do another stock offering again soon if the demand keeps up. Want me to let you know if we do?"

"Yeah," he answered. William's mind was running along a half dozen tracts. He was always juggling many subjects. "Thanks for the call, and _congratulations_."

"Thanks," and Anne hung up.

He wondered why he didn't feel relieved about Anne's good fortune. With such bounty, they might be able to restore the Pemberley property, though Ryan with his one-third share was still poor. William's feelings fluctuated as he thought about the family's property and his cousins. Did he think of himself as a caretaker too much and not allow them to run their lives as they saw fit? He tried for happy. After all, Anne had made over fourteen million dollars in one day. How could he not be excited about that?

He glanced at the clock and noticed it was past eight. He still hadn't eaten dinner, nor had he called Lizabeth. He dialed a delivery place first before calling her. His mind was considering what Anne had done that day.

"Did you see?" he asked. She answered that she had, and the two of them discussed the details of Anne's accomplishments. Making such a large amount of money in one day was nothing to sneer at. His stomach rumbled, however, and he reached up to run a hand over his tired eyes. She asked how his day had been. His head began to pound just from the question, and his fingers moved up to rub his forehead. He didn't want to talk about his day. "The same, how was yours?"

"The same," was her answer. He thought she sounded like she too wanted to get off the phone. He asked one detailed question about her day, and Lizabeth countered with one about his work, but then she offered to let him go, and he took her up on it. The phone was buzzing in his ear; he could tell someone else was on the other line, so he hung up and answered the incoming call. It was the Thai delivery man; that had to be the best news that day, and he went down to meet the man at the office door.

* * *

Work was even worse the next day. It was about ten at night when he realized that he hadn't called Lizabeth. She hadn't even been in his thoughts. He hoped she understood, mentally sent her a note that he was busy, and carried on. On Wednesday, the entire new arc exploded. He and Caroline and Dan, the new writer, had been hashing details all morning, but tensions ran so high that they all had to take a break. They agreed to reconvene in the middle of the afternoon. Dan had great ideas, but wild ones too. Caroline had taken to doing historical research after the last fiasco and challenged the writer about a few points. He was the sensitive, long-suffering sort who didn't take even a small edit well, so criticism about historical context and direction threw him into hysterics.

William and Caro babied him along. She insisted that they go out to eat to continue their work. He thought it was a lost cause as Dan wasn't bending, and their experience with the previous writer had taught William to cut his losses sooner rather than later. It was a question of both time and money.

But while Dan was arguing about introducing a love interest for Charles' character, William glanced at his watch and realized how late it was. He couldn't call Lizabeth from the restaurant, so he texted her.

_Work meeting tonight. Can't call, sorry_

There was a short reply.

_Sorry too_

That didn't seem characteristic of Lizabeth, but Caro said something, and Dan pouted, actually sticking out his lower lip. William got sucked back into the discussion and didn't think about her for the rest of the night.

Dan quit the project before midnight. William was secretly glad to have him off of it, but he and Caroline were up almost until dawn, discussing what to do. It was probably a bad choice to attempt to talk business until four in the morning, but this arc had given them so much trouble already that they both wanted resolution.

Frustrated, he went home to sleep and returned to a long day at work. It wasn't until the next morning that he considered that he ought to have called Lizabeth. But such was dating him, right? She would understand; all his previous lovers had. His focus now was on deciding whether to change the storyline by trashing the arc or if they could amend it somehow while Caroline spent time reviewing potential writers.

Late Friday afternoon, his co-producer took two steps into his office. "Go home, shower, change, and we're going to a party as I have a lead on a writer."

He knew enough not to argue that his presence wasn't required. "Who's party?"

"Wallace, he does Amazon productions. Do your best to dress well and pull out all the charm," she cautioned.

"I will," he assured her.

He was leaving his house when his mind drifted to Lizabeth. He conjured up an image of her in a cocktail dress, oddly with her hair up (as much as he loved her dark hair swirling down around her shoulders) all dressed for a party. William wondered how she would handle LA parties.

She answered quickly, but she always did. He didn't fear that she would ghost him. Oddly, she was on speakerphone. "I'm cooking!"

"Bad timing," he mused.

"Kinda," was her reply.

"I'm on my way to a party to meet up with Caro," he explained. "There's a writer who's supposed to attend that she thinks we should speak to." He paused, his voice trailed off. "Anyways, sorry. I've been distracted this week with work." He didn't want to go to this party, but apologizing to a date about his work rankled suddenly. William hated to ever apologize for being who he was, and the choices he made.

"I know that arc has been bothering you," she remarked. It sounded like she was still carrying on with the cooking.

"The replacement writer didn't pan out. We're coming up against some hard deadlines. While we can take all the time we want with filming, there's still a whole other set of responsibilities to meet as CinemaReady has promotional deadlines of their own if we're to make their Fall lineup or even their Spring." He was thinking about how much work he had facing him this weekend, and that was if they could get this new writer on board.

"I guess they want to know if you'll deliver on time?" She at least seemed to understand him; he appreciated that about her. Lizabeth was accommodating, not like past lovers.

"And clips for them, and just how many episodes there will be. If I don't come out of the gate strong with _Bella Montaña_, I will never get a second season," he mused, lost in thought again.

"Sounds like long hours, long days," she said.

"That's the thing…" William paused. "I'm not sure that I see coming north for a while in the foreseeable future." He hadn't considered that or intended to say it, but it was the truth. The whirling sound of the freeway was in his ear. He couldn't hear cooking noises from her end anymore. Then she asked him how long until he would come up. "A month, probably more. With CinemaReady's deadlines looming and us being so behind, I can't give a better estimate."

"I understand." He was thrilled that she did. They lived too far apart to see each other more than once a month when his deadlines meant every waking moment was work for the foreseeable future. "I understand," she repeated. "I think we should break things off between us. Not that we have an us; we never talked about it. We've just been, you know, seeing each other when you're in town. But now you're not going to be…we should break things off. I think the distance thing is too much of an issue."

William suddenly developed telescopic vision. He worried for a second that he would lose control of the car and took his foot off the accelerator. What had he done? _Didn't she understand_? All his previous lovers understood the 'cooling off but not calling it off' agreement. It was the next phase. An _adjustment_. It was what he had done with all of his previous relationships. His past lovers understood. _Why didn't Lizabeth_?

"Okay," was all he could say after there had been a long-drawn-out ringing silence between them. She had told him what she needed to, but had he even paid attention to her words?

"Best of luck with _Bella Montaña_," she said.

"Thanks. Best to you," he replied. "Bye." He hung up.

* * *

A/N: hope you are all coping. You don't have to learn a new craft or a language. You simply have to survive quarantine and this pandemic. That's it. If you do nothing BUT survive, you've done an excellent job.

I did an order from Target as they seem to be shipping things quicker than Amazon right now. Bought a crepe pan and made crepes for the first time. They turned out pretty good, often holey, but heck, my first attempt. We ate all of them. I used the _remaining flour_ in the house to do it. So not going to be able to repeat anytime soon, sigh.

But I also made home-made whipped cream, like William did on their date. I got THAT notion from my youngest who took years of high school cooking. Nothing beats home-made whipped cream!

Stay safe.


	27. Chapter 27

William drove in a daze. When he arrived at Wallace's mansion, he failed to be impressed by the ten or fifteen million-dollar house and merely handed his car keys over to a valet and walked in. Caroline stood out in white, which made it easy to find her. A passing waitperson handed him something which he instinctively took and sipped.

"She's not arrived that I can tell. My thought is we trash this arc; it's been poison to us. We go with introducing the love interest _this_ season, but tantalizing somehow. Maybe she's already married or a nun in a convent?"

William didn't answer but sipped, looking out into the crowds. _How could I have been so wrong about Lizabeth?_ he thought.

"An alien with green antenna?" Caroline quipped. He continued to examine the women in the room—beautiful, polished, thin and toned (a few more rounded, but still toned). Dressed well, most were in heels, either with jewelry or tattoos as adornment, their hair always perfect. It never got away from them, never spilled back to one side when pushed off their shoulders or slipped across a cheek despite hooking it behind an ear.

Lizabeth was just as elegant as these…_creatures_…before him and far more real. Her form was created from food and exercise, not some fad diet and a forced routine of gym classes with weird names. Her clothes were elegant and enhanced her shape; they didn't stand out like a beacon, indicating she belonged to the latest trend.

He had enjoyed their time together. _Damn her_, why? _Why_ did she say that they should break things off? He snagged another drink from a passing helper, plopping down his empty.

"That bad. It has to be female troubles, and not the kind _we_ suffer from," Caro murmured. She grabbed his arm and hauled him through the large living area to open doors and out onto an extensive patio. "What's happened? You've been rather quiet about your sex life recently."

"Aliens are green with antennae on their _head_," he quipped.

"Haha," she mocked, finding a railing to lean against. "Seriously, want to confess, or can we get on with business?"

"You didn't tell me that this writer, _Erin King_, was a woman," he grumbled.

"Does it matter?" she challenged.

"I heard _Aaron_, male name," he confessed.

Caroline patted his arm. "Best of both worlds. _Erin_ used to be _Aaron_ and is still considering a new name. Maybe Marion or Mary; she's trans."

"Could be an interesting perspective," he admitted. Caro waved a well-manicured hand at him.

He sipped at his drink. "Lizabeth," he whispered, William didn't look at his co-producer who was his friend and often his fixer.

"Damn, I warned you," she growled. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." He watched her shift her body slightly as though about to respond. William held up a hand. "Stop. I did _nothing_ when I should have done _more_. You warned me Lizabeth was the type who would want more than I usually allocated." He blew a breath out rather forcefully. "_Romance_, you told me she wanted _romance_. I didn't believe you."

"What's happened? I warned you to be careful," she said.

"She told me that she was very understanding about work being my primary focus but that we should break things off. In fact, it was just as I was driving here. There were more words about the fact that we'd never talked about what we were doing, seeing each other, but that she thought that the distance was too much."

Caro raised an eyebrow. It was an uncanny trick and unnerved him whenever she did it. "You sailed into a relationship with her and expected it to be the same as the _thousands_," he made a sound of protest, "of others you've had with the same superficiality and freedom to do what _you_ want and now you're protesting because _she_ broke it off?" That eyebrow could apparently crawl even higher on her forehead. "This is priceless. It's always about you, William, isn't it?"

Suddenly her face relaxed into a smile. "I think Erin has arrived. We should talk business. It's a good thing you are _free_ and _single_ and _available_ and won't be tempted to be leaving town for a while. We have a lot of work to do." William wasn't certain if that was sincerity or sarcasm. Probably both.

* * *

Lizabeth didn't rouse herself until quite late in the morning. Frequently, she and Charlene got together to shop on Saturdays, but earlier that week, her friend had begged off, pleading no time. Lizabeth thought it was just as well because she was a wreck. Was it possible to fall in love in such a short space of time? She'd had all those months with Edgar and hadn't felt a modicum of interest, and yet she was sure that she was in love with William, but now convinced that proximity was crucial. She was too new to relationships to survive a long-distance one.

Like Jane had said, the distance made it an impossibility. While Jane had been waiting for the right opportunity to break things off with Charles, Lizabeth had been presented with the perfect one last night. She wasn't going to mope for a month and then have him call again and beg off, or even worse, endure another glorious weekend together only to have him beg off for an even more extended period. To have him tell her that there were _reasons_ and _work_ and _distance_ before he'd be back would be unbearable.

Perhaps she was being inflexible and could drive down to see him, but she knew that he worked on the weekends too. Being there might just be a distraction. And would she fit in, in LA? He might resent having to make time for her. Maybe that was Jane's fear, and Lizabeth shared some of it.

She had nowhere to go that morning, but she had a cat and puttered around the house, reflecting on her situation. Being _selfish_ was new, and Lizabeth indulged in it for a while. It wasn't until after lunch that she pulled out her laptop to check her email and read the news.

There was an eye-catching story on The Merton Daily. "Dark Web Ties to Local Company." It wasn't a cutesy short headline for once; this one indicated it had exclusive investigative reporting by Jason Jones.

Initially, she began to read with detached interest but became more and more engrossed because it touched her in multiple ways. When she was finished, Lizabeth had to pick the laptop off of her lap and set it aside. Kitty immediately curled up; the laptop heated her legs, and the cat always luxuriated in that warmth. She stroked the cat as she considered what she had just read.

Jason Jones postulated that George Wickham was merely a scapegoat in what was likely a vast enterprise, the tip of which, the reporter felt he had barely uncovered. Spectre Security Software had only been recently founded, and was alleged to be a front for creating software for people to access the Dark Web. He hypothesized that they had _two_ levels of operations; the supposedly _legitimate_ security software and the Dark Web software.

Lizabeth had only heard references to the Dark Web and didn't exactly understand it, but she hadn't understood about bit-coins at first either. It would require research. Spending the rest of the afternoon attempting to understand the Dark Web would be a superb distraction from her troubles.

What was at stake was that a software company that _purported_ to make security software to keep businesses _safe_ from outside attacks was actually in the opposite business. Their software had backdoors. They were in the business of stealing information and stealing it on a colossal scale. They also dabbled in smaller-scale scams like credit card skimming. That was where George Wickham had been caught up or what he had been accused of. It was like they got too greedy. It was alleged that he had been hired and then made the fall guy.

Spectre hired people, both locals and others across the state (often those who were down on their luck, wanting to make easy money) to install credit card skimmers. Then all of those stolen credit card numbers were sold on the Dark Web.

Lizabeth thought back to the first day she had met Lydia Wickham, who had been Lydia Philips at the time. She had brought her mother, Lori, in to obtain a death certificate. Lori had moaned how her husband had been out of work, and how they had struggled to make ends meet. She wondered if _Ross Philips_ hadn't been one of those rogue installers.

But the scale of this deception appeared enormous, and Lizabeth still couldn't rack her brains around the fact that something like this—credit card and software fraud on such a scale—had occurred in Merton.

Then she thought about the fact that she had met these people and dined with him. There was that Vic fellow and Josef and Brandon and Amber, the woman, who she tried to get to walk to the bathroom with her just for company. That night, she had wanted to converse with someone on a level besides business. She wondered if they were all involved, or had some of them been set up, like George?

Lizabeth shoved a very reluctant Kitty off of her lap and pulled her computer back onto it with her mind running. Searches about the Dark Web were quite a rabbit hole, and she wasn't sure how long she spent reading about this secret underbelly of the internet where information and transactions were hidden behind doorways, which, in a sense, required keys.

She wondered if the Spectre people weren't doing precisely that (being ghosts, or phantoms): a business that wasn't really what they appeared to be on the outside or to the eye. She had once or twice heard people talk about the 'Silk Road' and probably seen a reference to it in news articles and had misunderstood it as an historical reference to a trade route, thinking of camels carrying goods across massive continents. But the Silk Road referenced illicit items like guns and drugs that could be purchased when a person had access to the Dark Web through that special software. But it also included things like credit card numbers that were sold and bought, hawked to the highest bidder.

Lizabeth went back and reread Jason Jones' article and understood it a great deal more on the second reading. It was amazing how much you could read something and not understand references yet understand the overall whole as she had with the first reading. But now, she had a far better comprehension of just what had gone on in her small rural town.

The police, which included the FBI, had issued arrest warrants for the entire executive branch. That seemed to be everybody she had dined with on that winter evening so long ago: Brandon Carter, Amber Chamberlayne, Victor Denny, Brian Forster, and Josef Pratt. But two people still hadn't been taken into custody: Victor Denny and Josef Pratt. There was that oft-repeated statement in the paper: 'the police were monitoring the airports' as if they were afraid that the pair would flee the country.

Spectre Security Software had been on the verge of going public. All the Spectre Customers were shocked and sent out press releases stating that they never suspected that the software and services that had been purchased from SSS had been suspect. They were now scrambling to ensure that their own websites and systems were safe.

Investors who had put money into Spectre expressed dismay that there had been anything wrong. They insisted that the business plans from the two founders, Denny and Pratt, had been authentic. The rest of the executive board (Carter, Chamberlayne, and Forster) had worked in similar start-ups before and had well-known and well-respected reputations in the software business. If they weren't _in_ on the fraud, then they too had been hoodwinked like the customers and investors.

Lizabeth took a break and went to the kitchen to fix herself a meal, finding the time away from her computer gave her thoughts a period to sort themselves before new facts diverted her. She attempted to understand the entirety of this deceit: that a company purporting to sell security software actually was a front for making software to access the Dark Web where illegal things like guns, drugs, and credit card numbers were bought and sold. It appeared the founding men had deceived everyone else on their board, in the company, and in town.

There was one moment when she was carefully dicing an onion when she thought of William, but she chased those thoughts away. It was a painful recollection. She still felt that breaking things off with him had been the best call. When finished eating, her mind was able to sort through things, and she jotted down some notes on a piece of paper.

_Spectre Software  
__People involved: Carter, Chamberlayne, Denny, Forster, Pratt, Wickham, investors, customers  
__Who are the criminals?  
__Who was hoodwinked?  
__Software investors, are they out all their money?  
__Dark Web  
__Credit card skimming_

She wanted to sort out the people into two groups, but she couldn't yet place them. This was an elaborate scheme that appeared to have been put into place _years_ ago (apparently by the founders: Victor Denny and Josef Pratt). Men who were willing to wait patiently for a payout.

Lizabeth recalled the story of a man who was stuck in a Soviet-controlled country back in the 70s or 80s. He bought some paint and a brush, and for months slowly painted a stripe down the middle of the street as he made his way towards the border. Every day, the border guards would pass him on their way to the gate without comment. Every day the man continued his slow, methodical way towards the border, diligently painting a stripe down the road. When he got to the border, the guards dutifully lifted the gate and let him pass so he could continue his work on the other side, never questioning his motives. His patience paid off, as it earned him his freedom.

But Lizabeth also considered the development of Old Man Goulding's property. Her memory was _clear_ about that evening at the country club. Ed being excited and sending her home in a taxi because he and George Wickham were going to show the Spectre people the layout of the Goulding property.

Jason Jones hadn't said anything about _that_ in his piece. She wondered if he knew about it and couldn't help but think that there had to be more information to uncover. She thought about contacting the reporter. Glancing at the clock, she realized that it was far past when she usually curled up in her bed with a book. Then she froze as she realized how far away from her usual routine she was. But perhaps that was good, as a constant diet of romance novels wasn't the best model for life with all its quirks and foibles and nuances.

William came to mind, memories of their time rushed at her, and she set aside her laptop and cried. Self-preservation had made her call it off. It was a tactic she had learned growing up in the Bennet household: when to cut your losses—which often meant denying herself something desired—to preserve her sanity and dignity. Still, it hurt, physically, and emotionally.

A tiny nose nudged at the hand that Lizabeth had covering her face (though there was no one to hide from). A soft paw poked at her, at first gently, then a little more urgently. Lizabeth pulled her hand free and wiped her tears. She was lying on her side on the couch. Perhaps Kitty objected to her sleeping there (though mostly the cat slept with Lizabeth now). But once she saw that Lizabeth's eyes were on her, she chirruped and purred and came to rub a furry forehead against her damp one.

How could Lizabeth not warm to such an outpouring of affection? She pushed herself up, and Kitty climbed up to curl into a tight ball on her lap. It made them both happy as the cat's sleek fur was stroked and helped to soothe the pain and distress Lizabeth felt inside. _I'm being 'Elizabeth' again_, she thought as her hand never stopped its activities and as Kitty purred in contentment.

She settled back more comfortably into the couch and wondered if she could change her name legally. She figured it was something that could be done at _her_ office, though no one had ever come in and made such a request in her months of work; she would ask the Judge on Monday.

Elizabeth Todd Bennet. She liked the sound of that name better. She liked the three syllables to E-Liz-abeth. You could even draw it out: E-Liz-A-Beth. It seemed people always shortened her name: Liz-beth, as though the A was optional, particularly her mother. She repeated E-Liz-abeth in her head. Hadn't William said something about that? That Elizabeth Todd would be a good stage name? Now, why did she think that? She was a clerk in an office, not an actress; she had never considered doing anything in Hollywood.

* * *

She woke with a kink in her neck and blinked her eyes a few times as she looked around her living area. It was light enough to see, so she suspected that it was early morning. Lizabeth licked her dry lips, ran a tongue on fuzzy teeth, and headed to the bathroom. Once done, she discovered Kitty at the end of her bed. They curled back up together and slept far into the morning on Sunday.

After breakfast, she went to buy a coffee pot, a long-overdue activity. Tea wasn't cutting it for her anymore. While the idea of going to the hotel and checking in with Mary (and whoever might be around) appealed, self-preservation kicked in. Seeing Charles Lee, if he were visiting Jane, wouldn't be a good idea. Charles was too close to William.

Instead, she pulled out her laptop. Though searches about the Goulding property made her think about William, Lizabeth locked away those days of puzzling over information for _him_ and focused on ferreting out new information related to how Spectre was involved with getting Old Man Goulding's land developed.

She had to wade through a lot of bits of information when what she wanted were documents relating to the specific investors. But she was an expert at hunting and eventually found what she wanted once she looked in the right place. Most of the information was part of the minutes from the Merton City Council meetings. _Hurray for government transparency_, she thought.

Lizabeth spent the afternoon pouring over plans, blueprints, and slides. A picture or a slide said a lot more than those hundreds of supporting pages. The two men who spearheaded the development of Goulding's land were the same who had founded Spectre Software: Victor Denny and Josef Pratt. It looked more and more as if _they_ were the villains of the piece. She suspected that the development hadn't been pursued for legitimate reasons and that Denny and Pratt had pushed for its development for financial gain. _How_ they were to benefit, though, she couldn't immediately assess.

Lizabeth sat back for a minute and tried to distance herself from getting lost in the details to consider what she knew. It appeared that two men were willing to exercise patience and play a long game for a very rich reward. This wasn't a get-rich-quick scheme; it wasn't like those people on YouTube hawking their books or systems on how to start a cryptocurrency so you could get rich overnight. (Anne Deburg had proved that _that_ was feasible, however, creating something from nothing by making over fourteen million dollars in one day.)

But this was sinister as it involved deceiving a lot of people when she considered both the software company _and_ the real estate venture and getting the town's approval. They had created a business proposition, wooed experts in the field, and solicited investors for the software company. They had received a lot of funding, and what was going to happen to _all that money_? Was all of the Spectre money gone?

Then there were parallels with the real estate development. There were venture capitalists (VCs) who put money into a holding company—Ground-Up Holdings—to develop the land along with Merton families who had also invested money. _Where_ was all of _that_ money? And would the city suffer losses as well?

She was a list maker; she couldn't help it (maybe she and Mimi _did_ have things in common). Now she added to her list:

_Old Man Goulding's property  
__Specter's involvement: Denny & Pratt  
__Real estate investors: who, how many, how much?_

She started with Jason's article and noted the names of the VCs who had invested in Spectre. Lizabeth compared the set of investors in Spectre Software with the set of investors in the Goulding development. There weren't many parallels. _That_ had probably been a deliberate choice.

If you wanted to bilk people of their money, you didn't ask the same person twice for money if you intended to steal it.

* * *

The requirement for Lizabeth to go to the Gardiners for Sunday dinners had been dropped when she had cut the apron strings. Her Aunt Chrissie, however, had reached out via text many times in innocuous ways, like sharing about her day, or sending pictures of cats as a means of keeping in touch.

But that Sunday afternoon, Chrissie called Lizabeth, who answered (though she felt a little hesitant). She still worried that her aunt's loyalties were too closely tied to Dawn.

Chrissie, however, didn't ask how Lizabeth was beyond briefly asking, 'how are you doing?' but not waiting for an answer. She had news to share about her family. At first, it was good news, as Scott had finally made his college choice. He hadn't gotten into his top pick, but was happy with his selection and to be getting away.

"I'm glad," said Lizabeth.

"Tyler's pleased he will be near." Both Gardiner sons were going to out-of-state schools on the east coast. "I just hope we can afford all this." Chrissie didn't usually sound nervous.

"Surely you've been saving to send them away?" Lizabeth asked.

"We have," Chrissie paused. "Ned's investments haven't done as well as we hoped." Silence pinged between them, and Lizabeth didn't know if she was expected to say anything, but her aunt continued by changing the subject.

"The news is disturbing. Ned has met most of those Spectre people. I can't believe this is happening here." Lizabeth murmured encouragement, and her aunt continued. "Rumor is that Victor Denny and Josef Pratt are fake names. That they come from Ukraine or Russia or Afghanistan!"

That got Lizabeth to sit up. "Wow! That seems almost mafia-like."

"It's all so unsettling to think that all of this is happening in my town!" Chrissie had been born in Merton.

"I agree." Lizabeth sent congratulations to Scott; Chrissie lamented some more about the news before signing off.

Lizabeth wondered why Denny and Pratt had come to Merton. It seemed, _random_, for them to pick a rural town to settle in to concoct their years-long scheme. Was there some connection or contact that they had which had drawn them to Merton instead of some other, more obvious place, to create a fictitious software company?

* * *

When she called Jane Sweet, Lizabeth hoped if Charles Lee had spent the night, he had left for LA. No mention was made of Jane's erstwhile boyfriend. Lizabeth delicately explained that she had been following the news and thought she had information to pass on that might be of interest to the Merton Daily reporters, but couldn't get a hold of anyone.

"Do you still have Jason's contact information, his work contact?" she asked, walking a line between being bold and being sensitive.

"I've been thinking about calling him. I sort of miss him," Jane mused. She sounded distant and sorrowful.

"How are things?" It was a very open-ended question.

"Floundering. Charles is all charm on the phone, but his schedule gets in the way all too often and prevents us from seeing each other. I just think I need to break it off." Jane still didn't sound convinced of her own advice, but she wasn't taking any action. Lizabeth wasn't sure if she should mention that she had called things off with William. _That_ message might not be something Jane wanted to hear. But her friend kept talking. "Maybe I was hasty in thinking that things with Jason weren't repairable."

"You indicated that there were things that frustrated you, like his never getting his writing off the ground, though his reporting is excellent." Lizabeth wasn't sure if that was what Jane wanted to hear or not.

"I think we have these ideas in our head about what our mate will be like, and we have a hard time giving them up. Sometimes, we do stupid things like break up with them because they're don't fit some ideal. Love makes us do stupid things." Lizabeth had no clue how Jane was feeling with that speech, whether she wanted to go back to Jason or was lamenting what she had with Charles, but didn't truly want to leave him. But as she was learning, friends often didn't want advice, just support.

"I think you're right. We want ideals, but we make stupid choices that just break our hearts," said Lizabeth.

Jane gave her Jason's contact information and they hung up. Lizabeth tried to call the reporter, but he didn't answer. She left a long message about the connections she had found, but then followed up her rambling note with her supporting documentation in an email.

* * *

Monday was by the book. Sticking to her usual routine helped to settle feelings inside. She didn't deviate from her focus on work and didn't check the Merton Daily. She didn't even call Charlene to ask about the possibilities of dinner. At home, Kitty was her rock as she thought about Jane's musings on relationships, and as she considered whether it had been hasty to break up for reasons of distance.

But she still felt how little she _knew_ about William despite how she _felt_ about him. She had no experience of how to walk that line. You had to spend more time with someone to get to know them better, so breaking up with him wasn't helping that. But his saying he wouldn't be around for a month wasn't fostering a relationship. He had more experience than she did, so presumably, he was comfortable with the distance and the awkward phone calls. She _was not_.

Lizabeth pulled her laptop over to check on her email and peep at the news. There was no glaring headline on the Merton Daily, but Jason Jones had replied to her email.

_I have been looking into these developments, but your impressive research has spurred me on. I especially appreciate your conclusion about the fact that the people who invested in Spectre are _not_ the same ones who invested in Ground-Up Holdings intending to develop the Goulding property. I have an appointment to visit George Wickham in jail tomorrow to discuss his part in this. I think I have the makings of a _**huge**_ story, and when I publish it, I will give you credit for your contributions. –Jason _

Lizabeth sat back, pushing the laptop away from her as she thought about being given contribution credit in a news article. Such an accomplishment was _satisfying_, and warmth grew inside. This was a first for a sheltered daughter who had mostly been told how worthless she was.

_I have done something valuable!_ She thought as she sank back further into the cushions and grinned at her empty apartment.

* * *

A/N: Quote from Doug Morris in an earlier chapter: "Love makes you do wild things. Stupid things too." He's one of my favorite side characters. I also forgot how much I like snarky, non-threatening Caro in this story as she only appears to needle William to better behavior.

And how do you pronounce Elizabeth? Three syllables or four?

On another note, the WWII story is coming along with interesting twists. As I've mentioned with this story, I liken writing P&P fanfiction to having a set of playing cards. How many I end up with in a hand, and how I play them, varies with each story. But many elements are the same. All of us love the big: the Hunsford proposal or small: Mrs. Bennet being struck speechless. So often I repeat little aspects and worry that I reuse them too much. But one thing I have never done is to have Darcy kiss Lydia, which I have just written!


	28. Chapter 28

William was walking along the seaside in Santa Monica, having come straight from work. It was late, but he always worked late. That was his modus operandi, to work twelve-hour days, six days a week (at a minimum). It was how he stayed ahead of the game.

Darkness was kept off by the street lamps along the beach, but a fog clouded the sky and the moon and made this usually familiar walk a little unsettling. It didn't help his foul mood. He and Caroline had argued before he left the office. She often didn't stay past eight, but that night had remained at work. William should have realized that she had a _secondary_ motive. Caro began packing up to go, but then stopped and perched on her desk.

Her eyes and face were dark and unreadable when she began speaking. "You fucked up. Has it ever occurred to you, _Mister_, that I'm the _best_ relationship you've ever had, and I'm a lesbian?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he snapped. How she knew that Lizabeth was on his mind, just then, he didn't know.

"Relationships—with _people_—are not all cut and dry and purely for business reasons, even though you've tried hard to prove that in the past," she said.

"I screwed up, but you have no right to berate me," he argued back.

"I suppose it never occurs to you to attempt to make amends, as that would mean admitting a mistake. You just stumble forward like a bull in a china shop. You didn't deserve her! She's _better_ than you," her voice rose slightly (Caroline never yelled).

"She's a clerk in an office," he retorted, and then he knew it was a mistake.

"You don't deserve her if that is the only way you measure people. No, you only think about yourself. And the only way you measure yourself is by your job. And when others don't have an equally illustrious or high-paying one, you hold them in contempt. You are one arrogant bastard, William. I'm ashamed to be your friend." Caroline grabbed the worn leather satchel that she used as a briefcase and stormed out.

He didn't want to let Caroline's words affect him and turned to go back to work, but he couldn't carry on. She was his conscience, as much as he wanted to forget the conversation. William couldn't recall where he was in his project review, so he powered down his equipment, packed up, and headed for home. He ended up in Santa Monica instead.

He found himself walking on a foggy night along a familiar walkway by the ocean, thinking that he had to agree with his co-producer that he was an arrogant fuck-up. His life had been days of crazy busyness growing his company and making a name for himself. Doing what he needed to achieve success, but he had been broadsided by a pair of dark eyes and long dark locks—a woman who was different from any other. But then once having her, he had thrown her away. He was just like every other bastard in Hollywood.

William thrust his hands in his pockets. The unexpected fog chilled the spring night. He continued his pacing, and when he got to the pier, he turned and headed back north, brooding as he went. _You can't have it both ways,_ he told himself. _You can't be enamored of Lizabeth for being different then disdain her when she doesn't understand your schedule and work habits_.

He kept walking, not stopping to watch the waves crash. That was his usual solution when life was overwhelming. His usual way to calm any inner turmoil, but William was too agitated, too irritated, too _disgusted_ with himself. Caroline's words had pricked his skin, gotten underneath, and he couldn't rid himself of their being justified.

There weren't that many people out this close to nine on a Monday. It was a cold, foggy night, but a couple appeared suddenly out of the fog; they were walking side-by-side. The man looked at his companion with a tentative interest, while she looked back with more eagerness. Their display irritated him. That had been him and Lizabeth months back.

Out of the fog came a figure on a bike, illuminated by the lamps overhead. He knew exactly what was going to happen and watched almost as if in slow motion. The storyteller in him saw it played out in his mind. The thief swerved towards the couple, grabbing the strap of her purse and kicking the woman, so she fell. The motion helped to separate her from her bag. The man was more concerned with his date and leaned over to catch her.

But William knew the outcome and was only a few yards away. He lunged over and attempted to grab the handlebars, but missed. The thief swerved around him. Instead, he caught the flailing end of a jacket with one hand, but that was enough. William didn't manage to unseat him but slowed him down, which allowed him to grab the jacket with his other hand.

"Get off!" cried the thief.

William was able to hold him still, and the woman's date charged over to wrestle the man to the ground. The two of them pinned him down while the purse was extracted.

It turned out to be a far longer evening than he planned with the police being involved, statements given, and seeing the amount of merchandise the thief had tucked in his jacket. By the time he got home, William couldn't help but glow with a particular pride at having caught the bicycle thief. The same one who had attempted to steal Lizabeth's purse that evening long ago. Part of him felt like crowing in triumph.

Instead, he sat in semi-darkness in his living room and thought about how much he wanted to call Lizabeth and share, but William realized he couldn't. He had no idea how she would take his calling her out of the blue. She had given him his marching orders. She _understood_ and had parameters of her own about relationships so had called it off. But did he really want to be so very well _understood_?

* * *

On Wednesday, the Merton Daily banner read 'Spectre Ties to Development.' Jason Jones outlined the strong ties between Spectre Software and the Goulding property being brought before the city council for approval. He described how it had been Victor Denny and Josef Pratt who approached local business-men and women with the guidance of their new sales and marketing hire, George Wickham.

It was _Wickham_, who had approached Old Man Goulding and won him over when no one else had succeeded in twenty years of wooing or begging. Denny and Pratt then lobbied developers to pool their money and founded the Ground-Up Holding company. It won city endorsement and reversed a decision to develop land on the west side of town that had been approved earlier in the year.

What Jason didn't do was speculate about the money invested in Ground-Up Holding and what would happen to it or the development (that was one of Lizabeth's points from her list). But he _had_ given her attribution credit right after his byline. There was also a line at the end. "This reporter has more news, check back tomorrow for another story."

'Jailhouse Chat' was Jason's piece on Thursday. Lizabeth devoured it over breakfast. In the article (which was longer than Wednesday's), George Wickham discussed his role at Spectre Software. He explained how had been hired into a top-level sales and marketing position and been thrilled to be able to return to Merton after having worked out of the area.

Part of the reason for his hire _had_ been that he was a local man. He knew the way the town functioned, and how it had grown over the years, but mainly, he knew the people. The two founders expected Wickham to use his contacts to pull in people, especially once they started to pursue the development of Goulding's land.

"I was set-up," Wickham claimed. "Because of my background, my parents. I was one of the closest people to William K. Goulding. I was someone from the same social standing. Goulding took my calls when he refused everyone else's. I'm sorry that I was duped into thinking my charm and talent had persuaded him to sell out and _not_ my connections."

Wickham might have remained blind to Denny and Pratt's deception but claimed that he discovered there were two sets of accounting books. One for show, for the investors and customers, and one that highlighted the real activity with the Dark Web software development. Wickham had confronted the owners rather than alerting the authorities then claimed he found himself being accused of credit card skimming and under arrest.

"I was framed. Anything found in my house was planted there. I had nothing to do with placing credit card skimming devices around town. I'm sure the police will be able to verify my alibi. Besides, Victor and Josef have fled."

The two main perpetrators have still not been located. No sign of them has been found at their homes, in Merton, nor have they been seen or tracked anywhere in the state. The FBI released aliases that both men were known to use in the past.

Victor Denny is also known as Victor Lagunov or Victor Baranov. Josef Pratt has used the names Josef Pasternak, Josef Papav, and Igor Rybakov. Both men are believed to have been born in Bulgaria but have lived in the United States for some time.

* * *

Lizabeth was eager to talk about Jason's piece in the Merton Daily at her Thursday lunch, but Charlene wanted to talk about moving. The discussion centered mostly around her and Lyle. Lizabeth at least got to mention her research for the Merton Daily reporter. Charlene grinned, said she hadn't read the piece, though she _had_ heard there was breaking news.

Her sister, Maria (who had long had a crush on George Wickham), had called Charlene to complain about George still being in jail and the unfairness of his being caught up in such a scandal. Then, nonplussed about the news, Charlene went back to talking about consolidating households, and what it would be like to live with a boyfriend. Lizabeth let her ramble.

Doug, however, was happy to discuss the news when she went back to work. They talked about both her stunning background research and Jason's interview with George Wickham. She and Doug hashed out the details of both stories, and the frustrating, unanswered questions. She couldn't help but come back to the questions she had pondered over the weekend. How had such a criminal pair ended up in Merton, and where were they now?

It wasn't until Friday that she recalled her idea about changing her name. When Troy Metcalfe came out to say he was leaving early, she asked him about the process.

"It can be as quick as three weeks to approve," he said. "You want to change your name? Your first name?"

"Yes, well, _maybe_," she faltered.

"To what?" he asked.

"To what most people assume, _Elizabeth_."

"Elizabeth." He thought about it, nodded his head. "Yeah. I like it. Lizbeth," He said it like her mother always did, dropping the A, "_Elizabeth_, classy!"

"Like Anthony will always be Anthony and never a Tony," she said. He smiled in agreement; she grinned back and waved him out to wherever he was going.

* * *

Home interested her that Friday more than the company of others. The mute comfort of her cat appealed more than the questions in Mary Abel's eyes or the mournful indecision that she would find in Jane Sweet's. Lizabeth knew where she was in life—with a broken heart. But she had learned to make decisions. She had learned how to say no to her mother. She had learned how to be an adult as triumphant and painful as that was. Lizabeth chose to return home to the one creature who gave her unconditional love.

It didn't mean that part of her didn't want to pick at the scab. She was attempting to let it heal and not indulge in second guesses while making dinner. Trying to find something to watch on TV failed, so she pulled out her laptop and looked over the documents that were related to William K. Goulding and the real estate deal.

Though it wasn't related to William Darcy, it still was, in a way and made her think of him.

Lizabeth wondered if she might find a research job when she tired of her job at the John Muir Recording Office. She hoped she could finagle Jason Jones into giving her a reference when she looked for another position. Jason hadn't reported on where the money had gone, though he had discussed the bleak future of Spectre Security Software. It seemed improbable that anyone would consider the company as anything other than dead in the water, with its investors acting like vultures picking over a paltry set of bones. There wasn't much left.

But she reviewed the list of investors in Ground-Up Holdings and noted the names of the families who were potentially out thousands or millions of dollars. It was a broad spectrum of the people she had met at the Metcalfe's party or at other times and places in Merton.

Oddly, Anne Deburg was on the list. Lizabeth speculated that Anne had invested in the property merely because it was being developed at the expense of her mother. Given their brief meeting and comments from William about his cousin, Anne seemed to Lizabeth a contrary person, one who _would_ thwart her mother in such a manner. Somehow, investing in a rival company fit Lizabeth's image of Anne's querulous nature.

There were two small LLCs which had invested in Group-Up Holdings, companies investing in other companies. She had been blinded by that list of the rich and long-standing of Merton and hadn't bothered to look into who owned the LLCs. On a whim, she looked them up now.

* * *

Lizabeth was beyond shocked because Anne Deburg owned the first company. She couldn't account for why Anne would create a company to invest in the Goulding development a _second_ time. Was it part of Anne's desire to always be investing in the Merton economy? William had mentioned this several times when he had brought up his family. She supposed that was a possibility.

The second LLC took a lot more time for her to uncover the owner; it was a single name. Everything was hidden in a paper trail, with PO. Boxes, and a lawyer's contact information.

People often equate getting lost hunting for information as being the equivalent to falling down a rabbit hole the way that Alice in Wonderland got lost. But Lizabeth didn't think that was true in this case. Alice fell down the hole because she was following the white rabbit, and _serendipitously _discovered Wonderland. Alice wasn't searching for anything specific, but that wasn't what Lizabeth was doing. She was more like a predator searching for prey. When she found the owner of the second LLC, she could only sit and stare at the name—Ryan C. Fitzwilliam—suddenly unsure if she understood anything.

Part of getting lost online had been to help her forget about William, and here she was conjuring up conversations they had shared—conversations about his family. He had frequently mentioned both of his cousins, and his devotion to them and their well-being, expressing concern about their future. Anne had surprised him with her skills and ability to conjure up a business out of nothing when she had created a bit-coin currency.

But Ryan was only ever painted black; the unloved son, the soldier who suffered in battle, the one who chose a life of servitude as a disability activist. _A man who never had any money to his name_. Lizabeth couldn't account for why Ryan wholly owned an LLC that was investing money, a _substantial amount of money_, in the Goulding property.

So many questions bubbled in her head. She didn't have a good idea how to answer them. It would help to have someone to talk them over with. The best person to do that, she had no right to contact. She had broken things off with William and didn't feel that she could call him up, even as a friend.

Lizabeth supposed he was the sort of person who would be okay with the two of them remaining on friendly terms. There was no way that she and Ed Stone could meet in public and talk politely. Edgar would sneer at her to his dying day.

William wasn't like that; he would welcome a phone call, even a friendship if she reached out. But Lizabeth was still new to relationships, romantic or platonic. She didn't think that her heart could handle being _just_ friends with William Darcy. Particularly if he dated someone else and she got to hear of it, or worse still, he shared the details with her.

Ryan had expressed an interest in Lizabeth (though he had been aggressive about it, and she hadn't liked that)—asking her out when she was dating someone and being…angry…when he suggested that she should have taken him up on his offer that day she ran into him later, on that date with William.

All of this just made her confused and sad and maybe even miserable as she missed William. She decided to go to bed. Lizabeth would decide on her next steps in the morning.

* * *

She appreciated the new coffee pot and wondered how she had lived without it at home as she sat in solitude with the cat but in comfort. Harkening back to the first days of living on her own, she remembered how uncomfortable she felt in figuring out how to '_be_.' Whether she should sit quietly or listen to music or watch TV; she realized how far she had come.

It wasn't until after breakfast that she pulled out her laptop out. The Merton Daily, which so often had cutesy headlines, had a news title of one word: **'FRAUD**,' in the most gigantic letters she had ever seen across the top of the webpage.

She had to read the first paragraph three times through and still couldn't believe what she had read. William's Cousin Anne and her partner, Georgiana Darling, had fled the country with a great deal of the money that they had made from the bit-coin offering.

Before she had known that it was Anne Deburg who was the one creating the bit-coin currency (and that _she_ was the reason for all those men coming in to register all those fictions businesses) when Lizabeth had researched the topic, she had read how often fraud was involved. But Lizabeth didn't believe it possible in this instance because she _knew_ this person. She had met Anne, who was sharp and unfriendly, yes, but that didn't mean she was a criminal or criminally minded. The story that had been crafted about the gold hoard being put up as collateral against the investments made it sound legitimate.

Lizabeth sat back and stared at the article, rubbing her fingers on her palms, which itched for some reason. She wondered what would happen next—what would be the fall-out from all of this? Some people would be out money, but there would be criminal charges filed too. Would the authorities try to hunt them down, like fugitives? Like the people profiled in those hyped-up TV shows she sometimes watched on cable channels?

Her phone lay next to her. The cat had a paw on top of it when Lizabeth reached for it. She honestly thought to call William, almost like offering condolences, then put it back down. She still wasn't confident how he would respond to her reaching out, or what she would say.

She remained glued to the news the entire day. It wasn't just the Merton Daily that covered this deception. It made other local news outlets. By the evening, it had made the national news. Two fugitives fleeing the country with millions of dollars was national-level news. Apparently, they had fled to Panama. Given that William's aunt seemed just as hysterical as her mother, she figured that he was on the receiving end of panic-stricken calls, and he had probably been induced to come north. Lizabeth filed that away, preparing herself in case their paths crossed.

Her concerns about Ryan were swept away with this focus on William's other cousin. But she sidelined any considerations about whether to call him, wondering if she had a right to ask him anything. The news about Spectre Software seemed to be forgotten, yesterday's news. The articles about the Dark Web were second-page news in light of two fugitives fleeing from justice to Panama with a large amount of money. No word was mentioned of George Wickham.

When Lizabeth was in the car (having gone out to get groceries and cat food), there was another breaking news item. Georgiana Darling had been captured in Panama and was to be extradited to the United States. But Anne Deburg still evaded capture, and the Panama authorities had no idea where she was. It was an incomplete news report, the sort that was partially true, but part unconfirmed. Once home, Lizabeth unabashedly spent her time refreshing news pages and waiting for more updates. The story, as it unfolded, seemed to be even uglier. Reports were that Anne had apparently turned on her partner and had turned Georgiana over to the authorities before going to ground.

It was assumed, at this point, that Anne was traveling under an assumed identity as someone with similar looks had been seen at the airport, though no 'Anne Deburg' was on any airline manifest.

* * *

Lizabeth added to her growing list of questions.

_RuggeCoin:  
Size of original hoard?  
Bit-coin investors, how much money stolen?  
Why did Anne invest in Ground-Up?  
Why Did Anne invest twice?_

She wondered how George had been able to persuade Goulding to sell when no one else had been successful, thinking back to the research she had done for William, and the secret she had uncovered. That his son, David, was, in fact, his grandson. She wondered if George knew and had used the knowledge to persuade Mr. Goulding to sell the land. It couldn't entirely be a secret as anyone who discovered the birth certificate would know. But some instinct told her she was right, and William K. Goulding had been persuaded to sell the land rather than have _that fact_ come to light.

She also realized that William Darcy had never told her what his connection was with George Wickham. They had dined together that one evening and discussed several topics, but he hadn't brought it up, nor had she pursued it. He had been on edge, somehow. Again, it came down to relationships; she was new at them and wasn't sure if she could ask. Now it ate at her that she hadn't been brave enough. Lizabeth _wanted_ to know what the connection was between those two men.

But the news of Anne Deburg fleeing the country with money she had bilked from her investors hedged out most other thoughts. It distracted her from her speculations even though it wasn't until Saturday evening that there were any new updates. One talking head discussed the subject of fugitives and where they often sought refuge. He believed that Anne Deburg was heading for Russia. Panama was often a stepping stone to Eastern Europe or Russia, and he speculated that she could easily hide there with her ill-gotten money.

Fugitives and extradition were topics that were too much for Lizabeth to consider researching. It seemed her time outside of working hours had become consumed with looking up issues related to Merton and its elite. She couldn't recall the last time she had curled up in bed with a book. That night, she merely went to sleep with Kitty next to her.

* * *

On Sunday, Lizabeth woke up resolved and ready to return to thinking about Merton and its _development_—real estate development.

It had been a weekend of shocking revelations after a week of unbelievable news, but she couldn't help noting the ties back to William Darcy. She wasn't sure that her heart could handle continually considering him.

She spent an uneasy half hour wondering if _he_ was the mastermind behind all of this. He was a storyteller and could see the big picture, but also figure out all the bits and pieces that needed to go into creating it. If he was willing to date someone, but not see them for a month at a time, she figured he must be _patient_. But then she pulled up that document about Ryan investing two million in Ground-Up Holdings.

She stared at it, unseen, not really reading it. _William's family is so strange!_ Lizabeth thought suddenly. Should she use that as a measure of William's personality, that one cousin had created a bit-coin currency and then run off with the investment? And for some reason, his other cousin had money but chose to portray himself as poor?

But she couldn't help but defend William against her own attacks or the comparison to his cousin's success. He was someone who earned his money. She couldn't fault him for working hard and being successful; she still believed that proximity had been their most significant issue, not his focus on work. If they both lived and worked in the same city, a relationship would be possible.

Lizabeth wondered what he was doing that day, _probably working_, she guessed. But then she shook her head and thought that he had to be aware of the news. _His cousin was on the national news_. No doubt, he was in town, consoling his aunt.

_He could be with you_, a voice in her head said_. But then he would only leave to go back to work, said another. Until I decide to move to Los Angeles, it's not going to work,_ she sighed deeply.

Lizabeth thought about his aunt's property. Maybe if the development of Goulding's land faltered or failed, the city might reconsider Catherine Deburg's land. She reviewed all her notes, lumping everything together into a story.

Spectre Software  
_People involved: Carter, Chamberlayne, __Denny__, Forster, __Pratt__, Wickham, investors, customers  
Who are the criminals? _Denny & Pratt_  
Who was hoodwinked? _Carter, Chamberlayne, Forster, investors, customers_  
Software investors, are they out all their money? _Customers, yes, Investors, maybe, they are picking through what is left

Dark Web  
_Credit card skimming: _was Ross Philips an installer?

Old Man Goulding's property_  
Specter's involvement: _Denny & Pratt were masterminds_  
Real estate investors: who, how many, how much? _All the old established families in Merton; many millions

RuggeCoin Fraud_  
Size of original hoard? _No way to tell_  
Bit-coin investors, how much money stolen? _Not yet reported_  
Why did Anne invest in Ground-Up? _To thwart her mother?_  
Why Did Anne invest twice? _No idea

She glanced over those unearthed documents about Ryan investing in Ground-Up. Outside of where he got the money (she added another note to her list), her eyes noted the return address: _Pemberley House_, River Road, Merton. It seemed Ryan, like Anne, had a fondness for his family property. Maybe the cousins _were_ similar in some ways.

Lizabeth had a lot of unanswered questions and decided that staying in the house all day would mean staying in her head and thinking too much about William, so she dressed. It was a lovely spring day, but not overly warm, so she threw a sweater on over a blouse and decided to look at all of the scenes from this 'story.'

* * *

She drove up Meadow, that perimeter road, to the Goulding property and parked in a different spot from where she and William had stopped (and where they had run into Ed). It was a massive piece of land, and she didn't understand how a person's resentment or bitterness or whatever emotion had taken hold would make a man shut it up and refuse to allow development. Perhaps relationships were like that, whether it was a father and son (or father and grandson), parent and child. Lizabeth hoped she never held a grudge for twenty years and was so unforgiving as she walked a short length of that rusty brown fence before she returned to her car.

She stopped in her favorite shopping center to purchase crackers and a drink for her drive. She and William had once dined at a restaurant there; it's when they had run into Ryan. It was warm enough in the car that she took off the sweater and cracked open the window as she drove along the north side of town. She avoided the freeways moving from Merton proper to West Merton and sought out the land that Catherine Deburg had wanted to sell.

Once she found Field Avenue, she parked; there were no 'Keep Out' or 'No Trespassing' signs on _this_ fence. Most of the land was leased for agriculture, and Lizabeth wondered that the rent from the lease didn't provide Catherine with sufficient money. Still, William had asserted that his aunt had a lifestyle that was more expensive than most. She laughed again at the development's potential name: Netherfield. It conjured up images of the netherworld, Hades, and Persephone.

Crawling back into her car, she dug into her box of crackers and ate as she drove. As she passed the end of the property near the river, she thought about Anne Deburg, and by extension, Georgiana Darling being extradited to the United States. But _Anne_ was still free. It made her think about meeting her at the Deburg house. She wondered if the aunt was inside mourning the loss of her daughter. There _was_ such a thing as bad publicity—and having your name in the news for fraud couldn't be good.

Lizabeth thought of William and considered it a high probability that he was there, _right then_, in _that_ house, so she continued on without driving by—just to look at it. A long thoroughfare lay south of the river, parallel to it, and aptly named River Road. She turned onto it, heading east to go home, having almost circumnavigated the entire perimeter of Merton with her wanderings.

As she drew nearer to it, Lizabeth realized that _this_ was the street William had taken the day he had driven her to see the last vestiges of what remained of the family's property: Pemberley. It was almost like that was a code word amongst the cousins. It was the name Anne adopted for her bit-coin filing and had obviously meant something to _her_ if she used it. And Ryan had used it as the contact for his carefully-buried name for that LLC.

Making a sudden choice, she turned off River Road to drive by the entrance just to look at it again, thinking about how a family had come down over time. William had shared how his ancestor had purchased land before California had even become a state and that they had once owned thousands of acres. Much of what she had just driven through had belonged to them. But now, instead of this generation enjoying what previous ones had known—luxury and wealth and status—they had to steal it, like Anne.

The previous generation (his parents and aunt and uncle) had simply begged _their_ parents for the land and sold off assets without considering the impact on their children, wishing only to retain a particular lifestyle. But this last generation—William and Anne and Ryan—had been faced with making their own money and without help.

William now seemed the exception out of the three in that he worked. He had his own company and _made_ money. Anne had chosen to steal it in an elaborate con. Lizabeth wondered again just how many of those gold coins that she and Georgiana purported to find _had_ been found, and if it wasn't like William had speculated, merely a handful—that they had crafted a story that _was_ too good to be true.

But Ryan! Where had Ryan found the money to create a company that could invest two million dollars into the Goulding real estate development to inflate its importance? Had he, like Anne, stolen it? Or had he been funded by someone, given dirty money—laundered money from some nefarious source? Lizabeth had heard about such things but didn't understand the process. Only that money was transferred around until its origins were buried to make it _appear_ legitimate.

She had much to add to her checklist as she approached the entrance to Pemberley, slowing down so she could pull up to the gates. She recalled the afternoon she had spent inside admiring the house's beautiful form, with its large bedrooms, and poky bathrooms. Lizabeth discovered that the gates were open and unchained. Her first thought was that William was visiting, and she considered speeding away.

But she looked up the drive and recognized, or _thought_ she recognized, Ryan's van. She had seen it once before when she had been out with William. They had run into him while he supposedly had been out to meet ex-soldier friends for dinner. Curiosity got the better of her. Lizabeth pulled inside, parking just beyond the gates, and she got out of the car.

It was colder under the trees, so she put her sweater back on, and grabbed her purse, not wanting to leave it lying visible on the seat. She walked tentatively up the curving driveway; it was longer than she remembered. She recalled the afternoon that she and William had driven it as the house came into view. It was still breathtaking to look at. A car was parked in front, a small nondescript one, though she wasn't sure of the make or model. But a figure was loading something into the trunk, and Lizabeth felt her stomach cramp as she watched him.

* * *

A/N: Here's where I say a _huge_ thank-you to my husband. He wandered in one day and said "I have an idea for a story…" and talked about bit-coin fraud. (He works in financial software; it's a weird niche.) He sent me loads of links to websites about bit-coins, but also included stuff about the Dark Web and said, pick one, but I thought, _why not use both_?

Later I had to run to our county recording office for some reason and voila! there was my setting and the story came together.

April seems to be going by faster than March crawled by. Stay safe.

Not sorry for the cliffhanger...see you'all Monday.


	29. Chapter 29

Something made Lizabeth stop and take out her phone. Though she had been sorely tempted to contact William Darcy many times over the last week and a half, this seemed to warrant a call. She didn't wait to hear if he picked up or if it went to voicemail but tucked the phone in her bra as she walked up to talk to Ryan Fitzwilliam.

There was the briefest whisper of her name when she heard William answer, but it was covered up by the sounds of her feet crunching on gravel as she called over, "you can walk."

"I can," said Ryan as he turned to stare at her. "What the hell are you doing here, Lizabeth?" He ran a hand over his chin where he had grown a beard. It made him look more dangerous, somehow.

"William brought me here once," she said.

"Ah, the honorable, arrogant, fuck-up William," he said, sighing. "If only he hadn't; I wouldn't have to worry about what to do with you now. How did you get in?"

"The gates are open," she answered, taking a step backward, though she knew that wouldn't help.

"Josef is such a prat, and forgets to wipe his nose when it runs," he said.

When Lizabeth heard Josef's name mentioned, her body flushed; it was a similar reaction to when Mrs. Bennet yelled at her when she had done something wrong. But she also couldn't help the exclamation, "no!" escaping from her lips.

All her ideas about Ryan and the depth of his involvement in the various dealings in Merton flashed through her mind and made sense. Ryan Fitzwilliam was the lynchpin that held it all together.

* * *

During the week, William and Caroline had worked hard on repairing the story arc, repeatedly meeting with the new writer who took them on a far darker path. Caro loved the new direction and believed that the audience, particularly the eighteen- to twenty-five-year-old-eyes, would love it.

Considerations of where he had gone wrong with Lizabeth had dominated William's mind to the exclusion of everything else. But making amends was something he wasn't used to doing. In the past, he had always moved on. Perhaps a little unhappy that things hadn't worked out but usually far happier that his lover or girlfriend was out of his life. But not now. William wanted Lizabeth back but had no idea how to go about doing that. He had failed to woo her once before, but could he woo her a second time? Did he know how?

Once or twice in his life, he had been utterly surprised by an announcement, though he usually was jaded enough (having grown up in LA) to not be stunned by a disclosure. But William found himself blinking his eyes and feeling stunned when he read the news about his cousin's arrest.

Anne was a blood relation; they had played together as children. He thought he _knew _her, despite her foibles or quirks or her ill-health. He had seen her use illness as a means of keeping people at a distance (or claims of it—she was never consistent about what ailed her). But when a friend called on Saturday morning and woke him up to ask 'hey, isn't that your cousin on the news?', William had no response and could only say 'no comment' before he found himself glued to the TV.

It wasn't much longer before his Aunt Catherine called and demanded he come up. But William wasn't sure what he would do if he came rushing to her side, so he told her he wouldn't. He thought about Lizabeth taking a stand with her mother. It felt harsh, in a way, to push his aunt away at such a time, but he didn't know what _benefit_ it would be for him to listen to her complain.

He was troubled and depressed by Saturday night, cooking supper and raiding his stash of wine (and drinking too much of it, though he had many excuses for drinking that night). On Sunday, he slept in. The news continued to be bad, and he wasn't inspired to work, so he holed up in his home office—out in his shed.

William couldn't keep Lizabeth out of his mind. Her luminous dark eyes, that luxurious hair, and that small uncertain, untried smile. But there were other things about her, her insight, the way she picked up on things, and strung facts together to a conclusion. She was clever, quick. He had discounted her, sneered at her. Caroline was correct that he hadn't deserved her.

He felt like his world was falling apart; what he knew about film and storytelling wasn't true anymore and wasn't what people wanted to hear or see. This new writer, with her insistence on dark, morbid topics and points of view—wasn't his. And he had discovered that his family members weren't who he thought them to be. It made him question where he was in life. Was _this _where he should be and was it what he really wanted to do?

He had seen himself as a caretaker for both of his cousins, even if Ryan was older. William admitted now that he had felt upstaged by Anne with her bit-coin offering and making millions in one day. But news of her flight, and becoming a national celebrity in a _bad_ way was a blow—there _was_ such a thing as bad publicity, and he didn't enjoy being attached to it.

His mind swung back to work, and he wondered if perhaps they ought to just scrap all of _Bella Montaña_, and take the financial hit. Maybe he should change how he worked. It seemed with his current process, he was always scrambling to keep up. Maybe he ought to plan better and work a year out. Instead of considering the fall line-up, he should think of the spring and buy himself time, with room to breathe, and a little peace of mind.

He felt better when he wasn't stuck inside, but the beach wouldn't do it for him with that recent incident involving the bicycle thief. William got in his car and headed up through Beverly Hills into the canyons to snake his way along the curves of Mulholland Drive to clear his head, getting lost merely driving the hills.

His phone rang, and he answered with a click of a thumb before he glanced at the caller ID. His heart leaped up into his throat when he saw that it was Lizabeth.

"Lizabeth?" he said, tentative and almost convinced he was dreaming, as if he had conjured her up from nowhere since she had been on his mind. But no voice answered. He was confused as there was ambient noise on the line but no words. The sounds of both the motor and wheels from his car overlay the sounds coming from the phone, and he called her name again, "Lizabeth!"

She said, "you can walk!" and he was puzzled by the response.

But then he heard his cousin answer. "I can."

Sweat beaded his brow, and his hands were suddenly slippery. William felt unsafe driving and feared he would lose control of the car. He didn't want to call out and ask if she was safe, fearing that his cousin would hurt her as he heard the menace in Ryan's voice.

William didn't understand the situation. He only felt sick, sweaty, and confused, but he kept driving and attempted to find a place to pull over. The next part of the conversation was missed as someone was riding his bumper (people loved to speed on Mulholland). Once William parked and pulled the phone up to his ear, he could only hear movement. The way you hear bodies shuffle and shift over the phone as they walk or cook or do some physical activity.

"Down the hall," he heard Ryan call.

William still wasn't sure where the two of them _were_ beyond a location Lizabeth knew, though it was apparent that his cousin knew it as well. There was the sound of a door opening and hinges squeaking.

"Up," Ryan ordered, followed by the sound of feet on wood.

The pair seemed to be climbing stairs. "I didn't see this," he heard her remark.

"I locked my cousin in here once. It was so far from the rest of the house that no one could hear him yell. I don't need to worry about gagging you."

William felt his face go cold as he realized that they were at Pemberley.

"It took my aunt and grandmother an hour to find him. Little fucker didn't even attempt to find a way out. If only he had attempted to crawl out the window and over the roof, he would have been free in ten minutes. He was never the adventuresome sort; he always sat daydreaming," Ryan sneered. William thought he had erased that memory, put it down to boyhood mischief. He hadn't realized how intentional the act had been. He also felt torn. In order to call the police, he had to hang up and lose his connection with Lizabeth, so he hung on, wondering if Ryan would leave, and he could whisper to her and discover if she was alright.

There were muffled sounds. He could hear his cousin's voice fading out, then getting clearer again as he asked her to put her hands behind her back, apparently to tie her up. There was something about the reality of listening to it that made his stomach cramp. Such a scene in a movie was one thing, hearing it played out was another, and William felt sickened.

There was no talking for a minute, only those sounds of movement, but his cousin's final farewell (but not a _fare well_, as Ryan didn't wish Lizabeth well at all). His words, "they'll find you…eventually," were loud and clear.

William waited and waited. He knew it was mere seconds. His ears waited for a sure sign that Ryan had gone but didn't receive it. The fact that there was no more noise finally made him brave enough to whisper, "Lizabeth? Are you okay?" he began.

"William! _Ryan_ is in on it. He can walk, but he's leaving now with Victor and Josef. You _have_ to call the police," she exclaimed.

"Do you know where they're going?" he asked.

"No." He could hear the sounds of movement as though she were attempting to free herself.

"But are YOU alright?" he insisted, frantic.

"I'm at Pemberley," she said. He had no measure of _how_ she was. She sounded factual and not emotional. He had seen her do that before, retreat when overloaded.

"But are you alright?" he repeated.

"Yes," she answered, still sounding distant and out-of-touch.

"I have to hang up in order to call the police. I am going to hang up now. They'll come for you soon," he insisted, reticent to do so, and yet he wanted the police to free her as soon as possible. "Bye."

"Hurry and call as they've already left," she insisted.

William reluctantly clicked the red button to end the call and dialed the emergency line. It took some time as he had to identify himself and explain that _he _didn't have an emergency, but he was calling about one in a town hundreds of miles away, hours away, in another police jurisdiction.

Using his cell phone parked on a road with questionable cell coverage complicated the process, but he was finally able to get some traction and got the operator to understand when he mentioned his cousin Anne. His final exchange, before hanging up, was to assure the authorities that he would drive to Merton.

He tried Lizabeth's cell, but there was no answer. Whether because she was still tied up or was now free but was speaking to the police or wouldn't take his call, he didn't know.

* * *

It was the longest drive to his place of birth that he had ever made. Never before had William wanted to be there in an instant. The radio was of no help. He tuned it to a station that broadcast the news constantly, but no news made him happy during that long drive. There was nothing about her or Ryan.

William drove with the long straight stretch of freeway in front of him and cars or semis impeding his progress. But there was nothing to stop his mind from repeating those snapshots of overheard dialog. When he had first picked up the phone, he had wondered why she was calling. But as the scene played out (he had almost been able to see it in his mind), he had briefly wondered if she had called for some cruel reason. As if she knew Ryan would hurt her and wanted revenge, wanted _him_ to suffer by hearing her tortured or tormented.

But William quickly dismissed those thoughts. Other lovers might have acted in such a calculated way, but Lizabeth would not. She had walked boldly into a scenario, probably meaning to confront Ryan, but as a back-up—having been caught off-guard by his apparent ability to walk—she had called William at the last minute. She must have hidden her phone somewhere that Ryan didn't find it as he speculated that his cousin _must_ have searched Lizabeth before tying her up.

She had incredible strength. He hadn't realized that, but it took strength to end relationships. She had looked at the big picture and decided what she needed and called it off—even though it had been devastating for him. And she had confronted Ryan. William didn't understand why she had gone to Pemberley to talk to his cousin, but he could only admire Lizabeth as he sped toward Merton and his family home.

She was beautiful, intelligent, clever, and strong, and William realized that he loved her. He had never loved any other woman he had dated. With only the freeway's length taunting him and not knowing her fate, William thought nothing came closer to tearing him apart as he sped past cars, _desperate_ for news, receiving none, and not making enough headway.

Driving during the day, it was over five hours to reach Merton. At least Pemberley lay on the south side of town, and River Road was an exit just off the freeway. The landscape in front of his ancestral home was blocked by a dozen police cars, and when he pulled up to speak to a uniformed officer, leaning across his car to talk through the open passenger window, the man blew a whistle and waved at him to move. William stood his ground and called out that he owned the property. He was still waved on but told to pull beyond the police vehicles.

What followed was a far longer time than he anticipated, like on Monday, speaking first with local police and then with FBI agents. He immediately asked about Lizabeth and was assured by every person swarming around the Pemberley grounds that the young woman had been rescued within fifteen minutes of his call. She had been checked out by medics and released to stay with a friend.

No sign of Ryan Fitzwilliam or his associates had been discovered, nor did they have any clue as to which direction they had fled or their next moves. When William asked, 'which friend?' Lizabeth Bennet was staying with; the police said alternatively that they didn't know or couldn't share that information, but that they needed William to stay and answer questions.

They wanted to know what _he knew_ about his cousins and their activities. The snippets which Lizabeth had mentioned in their short conversation became clearer as he began to understand that Ryan was involved with the two men who were still wanted for questioning (and suspected of masterminding) the Spectre Software Dark Web swindle. William couldn't believe that Ryan was involved, a relative. But he had also had a hard time believing that Anne had created a successful bit-coin offering—and then fled with the money.

He felt slammed from the repeated blows of the news and physically sick, though he answered the authorities' questions as best he could. Part of his brain realized that his relationship with Anne Deburg and Ryan Fitzwilliam (and co-owning Pemberley House) made _him_ a _suspect_. Eventually, he was asked for his contact information, where he would be staying in town, and for how long. He said he would be at the hotel. Keeping Aunt Catherine at arm's length was best (particularly if he remained a suspect).

Once back in his car, he tried Lizabeth's phone, both her cell and home number, but she didn't answer either one. He wondered who she was staying with or if she had gone home to her family. Part of him, a small part, was content that she had found comfort after her ordeal. But a larger part wanted to console her himself, and he checked into the hotel, realizing he was angry and frustrated after all the events of the day.

Lying on his back on a hotel bed was far less satisfying than sitting in his home office as he realized how disappointing everyone's answers had been, the same with the news and the events of the day. He had begun the day posing questions about the future, for himself and his company, and ended the day in bitter disappointment, feeling worthless, and even to blame.

Somehow, had Lizabeth not known him, she wouldn't have ended up at Pemberley, confronting Ryan, and being locked in the turret. _Her_ fate was _his_ doing. William was miserable and melancholy and fucked up. He rose from his bed and went down to the hotel bar to drink, thinking he might recognize someone. Maybe Charles was in town and visiting Jane? but there was no one. It was just him and a line of drinks before he stumbled back to his hotel room in confusion and misery.

* * *

He took his time on Monday to shave and shower and dress. William didn't attempt to call her but thought that speaking in person might be easier for both of them. He arrived at the Recording Office just before noon, hoping they might have lunch together.

But Lizabeth wasn't behind the counter. That jokester wasn't at the computer in the public area, either. The office was quiet, almost clinical. A small metal bell sat on the counter, and William rang it. Troy Metcalfe poked his head out of his office after a too-long pause.

"Hello?" said Metcalfe.

"Hi." William smiled. "Is Lizabeth taking the day off?"

"I don't know what happened to her. She didn't come in, didn't call. I haven't been able to get a hold of her," the Judge explained as he came farther into the room. "How are you?"

"Fuck," William muttered before attempting to look again at Troy Metcalfe. "Um, _confused_. Not sure if you've followed the _antics_ of my relations or not? But Lizabeth got caught up in them. I'm surprised that bit hasn't made the paper yet." He started and stopped many times in his explanation to the Judge about what had happened the day before. With his focus on contacting Lizabeth, William hadn't paid attention to the news that morning.

Perhaps the police were down-playing their search for Ryan Fitzwilliam, Victor Denny, and Josef Pratt? The men having been holed up all this time in town was being kept quiet while they still searched for the fugitives. Any news about an associated kidnapping had been kept quiet as well.

Judge Metcalfe looked distant after William shared the story of her call and his police interrogation on Sunday. "I have to assume she's traumatized," said Troy. "I'll need to figure out coverage for the desk until she resurfaces." He bit his lip, which seemed very uncharacteristic. "I care a lot about Lizabeth. She's sweet, _no_, that sounds sappy. _Different_—spunky and smart and has run this office efficiently. No one has ever complained. Thanks for dropping by."

Judge Metcalfe wandered off with his mind considering a substitute records clerk. William watched him shut his office door before he walked out, wondering where she was. He tried her phone numbers again, but Lizabeth didn't answer either one. He didn't want to be a nuisance, so vowed only to call once a day. But now he had the afternoon stretching in front of him.

Work, _his_ work, needed addressing. One glance at the email on his phone showed William that he could get lost in work and not surface until the next morning, but he put off tackling it until after he ate. His call to Caro ended up lasting hours, with both of them on speakerphone as he discussed the news, his role, his cousin's role, and what had happened to Lizabeth before they even tackled work. He signed off, indicating that he wouldn't be returning to Los Angeles until he knew that Lizabeth was okay—which meant seeing her in person. Oddly, Caroline didn't hurl any quip his way, merely saying that she would handle things at the office, and the phone went dead.

* * *

On Tuesday, he was hopeful, though he didn't honestly expect her to be at her desk. When he walked in, a dark-haired woman with her hair obstructing her face was reading at Lizabeth's desk, and his heart leaped in excitement. It fell fast when the woman looked up, and he saw it wasn't Lizabeth staring back at him.

"May I help you?" she called over.

"No, thanks," he answered and walked back out.

On Wednesday, there were _two _people behind the counter, but neither woman was Lizabeth. The same brunette (who was about the same height and age as Lizabeth) was there; she appeared to be teaching a young blond woman, a girl really to William's mind, how to enter items on the computer. The second woman looked slightly familiar, as if he had seen her once before, or in a picture.

The brunette frowned at him; he suspected she recognized him from the day before. "May I help you?" she repeated.

"Judge free?" he asked.

"No. He's gone to lunch," she answered. William said he would come back and declined to leave a name.

By Friday, he had repeated the pattern of calling without success at the John Muir Recording Office. Lizabeth hadn't returned, and Troy Metcalfe was just as elusive. He continued his policy of only calling her once a day, but Lizabeth never answered her phone.

William wasn't bothered by work as he let Caroline make all the decisions about writing and directions for the story arc, giving feedback if critical, but otherwise, he brooded. The news about the fugitives had finally broken. Sometime in the middle of the week, it was reported that the three fugitives had somehow evaded both the US authorities and Canadian authorities and boarded a flight to Russia. They had fled over the northern US border and managed to escape all nets set for them.

When he wasn't going through the functions of calling at the recording office or returning a call from Caroline, William allowed himself to ruminate over the _unreality_ of this entire situation. Calls to a family lawyer also didn't help alleviate his mood. It was possible that the government would seize Pemberley because of his cousins' actions, and he was likely to lose his share of the property. There was word that all of Anne's and Ryan's assets were frozen. Their treachery was quite personal and damaging.

Pemberley had been in a slow state of decline, and William hadn't been able to convince his cousins to invest any money into it to fix it and bring it back to life. His interest in the place and the land hadn't been for money but out of sentiment. It hurt to have them throw it away, the way his mother had thrown away their land. The way his aunt was throwing away her property. (Despite all that happened, he continued to keep Catherine Deburg at a distance. He had enough to cope with.)

And Lizabeth didn't want him. He had had his chance and blown it. _William_ was the cause of her misfortune—had been the cause for her kidnapping. He couldn't blame her for never wanting to see him. Could his world be any worse?

* * *

When William stepped down to the hotel restaurant on Friday night, he heard his name called from the bar. It was Charles.

"How are you doing? You look…terrible," said his friend as he walked forward. William thought it was the first time that Charles had said anything that was less than gracious.

"I haven't slept so well," he admitted.

"I just arrived in Merton, come and have a drink with Jane and me. Unless you're meeting somebody?" The way he put his question left a lot for interpretation.

"I was just going to eat and then head back to my room…to sleep, I guess." William realized how much he had been drifting.

"Have a drink," Charles insisted, the charm sneaking through. It wasn't the full gigawatt version, but a more subdued one which showed his concern.

"I will," William agreed, walking up to the bar. He greeted Jane.

"Have the police found any answers?" Charles asked.

"That's a very open-ended question." William wasn't sure that he wanted to talk about his now-infamous relations.

"Well, have they?"

"I know nothing more than what _you_ have read in the paper," William asserted.

"It's been an eye-opener," said Jane. "I thought we were immune to…I don't know, big-city problems. We're a sleepy, small town here. That's why I like living here, why I asserted I would never move." Her eyes glanced at Charles, then moved back. "Now, I realize that bad things can happen anywhere. Bad people can live anywhere. I was wrong to think that one place is safe or that I shouldn't, perhaps, consider other locations. Just because they're big doesn't mean they're impersonal."

William thought that speech had a lot to do with his friend's chances for happiness and success with Jane Sweet.

"So, are you here to see Lizabeth?" Jane asked. An innocent question, and yet, he felt punched in the gut and didn't know quite how to answer it.

"Did you hear what happened?" William tentatively asked.

"No!" Jane was an instant concerned friend.

"I guess Ryan kidnapping her hasn't made Jones' column yet," he mused.

"Your cousin kidnapped Lizabeth!"

He nodded. "It's all my fault."

"Your fault? How is it _your_ fault?" Charles asked.

"If she hadn't known me, if we hadn't been together, Ryan wouldn't have done it," William claimed.

"But didn't Mimi introduce Ryan to Lizabeth at the gender reveal party?" Jane asserted.

"Maybe she would have met him regardless," said Charles. "Maybe Ryan would have done it, even if you two hadn't dated."

"Yes, but what if he did it out of revenge against me?" William asked.

"How would you know? How are you to know what your cousin's motivations are? What if Lizabeth was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe he simply needed to leave and didn't want her calling the police."

"Yes," Jane agreed. "You can't blame yourself for your cousin's actions."

William leaned over, ready to argue, but the music got a little louder. He looked over at the woman at the piano who was unabashedly listening to their conversation. He thought he ought to hold his tongue and stop talking. Best not to start any rumors about her.

Having only one drink relaxed him and seemed to comfort him (and not consuming a multitude to drown his sorrows). But having someone to talk through his problems made William feel less guilty about what Lizabeth had suffered at Ryan's hands. But he still wouldn't be happy until he could speak to her.

* * *

Jason Jones had a piece in the Merton Daily the next morning. Much of what he wrote were allegations based on research, and having interviewed people and the authorities. Jason speculated that Ryan had met Victor Denny and Josef Pratt in Afghanistan when he was still in the service, though he hadn't been able to trace the exact movements of all three men. He suspected that the two, Denny and Pratt, had run guns into the area. They had formed a budding partnership based on, again he speculated, a hatred of authority.

Ryan Fitzwilliam had been wounded, but not as severely as he ever admitted, hiding his progression out of a sickbed through the help of friends at military facilities. Denny and Pratt moved to Merton, and the three began an elaborate long con game. The two men founded a software company and solicited investors while, Jason speculated, Fitzwilliam raised money in illicit ways. Possibly by bilking money out of former fighting friends, or by skimming money from corporations that he solicited for donations for wounded vets, or through contacts given to him by the other two.

Spectre Software had created and sold _legitimate_ software, and booked that money at a small profit. But that security software was then used as the basis to develop the Dark Web software. Jason alleged that the two men had contacts in Eastern Europe who took the code and manipulated it. The company made _far_ more money selling its Dark Web software than from the legitimate software. It was also possible that Spectre created back doors in their 'legitimate' software to be able to steal their customers' data and information. Jason couldn't confirm this as no customer would admit to a data breach.

But the two men got lazy or greedy or frustrated, and started a credit card skimming ruse, using their own software to sell stolen credit card numbers on the Dark Web and pocketing the money. Jason wasn't able to ascertain if investing in real estate had initially been one of their goals, but it appeared that developing the Goulding property had dropped in their lap when they hired George Wickham with his ties to the Merton community.

But it fell apart when Wickham discovered that there were _two_ sets of books and when he had confronted Denny and Pratt. They set up Wickham to take the blame, then disappeared. It was assumed that they transferred the money out of the country before they fled with Ryan Fitzwilliam to Russia, having set up off-shore accounts in untraceable and untouchable places like the Cayman Islands.

William Darcy sighed when he got to the end of the story. He couldn't help but wonder if his _other _cousin hadn't been connected with this _fiasco_. While Anne's final destination was less known, she was still considered a 'fugitive.' He speculated that the similarities between his cousins' actions meant that they might have colluded at one time. Had they known about the other's activities and assisted one another? Had Anne given Ryan money, or had Ryan given her contacts, so she had a place to go once she fled with the bit-coin money, betraying her partner, Georgiana?

While William could concentrate a modicum on work that weekend, his mind was far more focused on running scenarios through his head of a potential meeting with Lizabeth than genuinely dealing with work problems.

He had only a small measure of hope when he walked into the recording office on Monday, just before the noon shut-down. He expected to see the blond head of that interim clerk there, but there were two heads at the desk. One was dark, but this time he _knew_ it was Lizabeth Todd Bennet, and he wondered how he could have been mistaken the previous week.

He walked to the counter and pressed against it for support, but she didn't look up. "Lizabeth," he called.

She turned, her hair moving as she swung her head to look at him. He thought she must have been expecting him as she didn't seem surprised. His daily visits the previous week had probably been reported. Plus, he had called her once a day and left a message.

"Hi," she said. "I figured you'd come by. Lydia, I'm going to leave a few minutes early for lunch." She stood, not looking at the figure next to her. They had been working together at the computer as if Lizabeth was training her.

"I'll lock up at twelve," said Lydia, who stared at William.

* * *

A/N: apologies for this author tormenting you'all, but it's my job. Downhill from now on. Now the bell for the story's thumbnail makes sense?

Confession: I've agonized about having a wounded vet be a villain or a disabled person be the villain. I hate to perpetuate any stereotypes or shine a bad light on either group. The disabled most often live below the poverty line and with very few opportunities. I have a cousin who had to become a ward of the state and lives in a nursing home. They do not become criminal masterminds.

And just so you know, I stab myself with imaginary daggers after writing truly angsty bits. They get to me too.

Stay safe.


	30. Chapter 30

Lizabeth stared at William, her purse in her hands. "We need to talk. I sort of figured you would stop by again."

She sounded so impersonal that he wasn't sure that he wanted to continue. For more than a week, he had attempted to contact her without luck or response, hoping that she would return his calls or texts. Now that she was ready to speak, it put him off. He shook his head, wondering if some part of his mind was attempting to sabotage what might be his only chance.

"Do you want to just walk around, or shall we get something to eat?" he asked.

"Eat please," she remarked, then turned to exit her work area, opening and shutting the counter-door. They met at the office's front doors; he held them open, and they walked outside into the May sunshine.

"Did you have a place in mind?" he asked.

"Someplace quiet," she indicated vaguely.

"Have you ever been to Mama Harringtons?"

"No. I've never heard of it," Lizabeth answered.

"I hope it's still here. Last I heard, her daughters were going to take over. It was a favorite place of mine when I was little. Okay if we drive?" William asked.

"I think the Judge will understand if I am a little late today. Lydia can open back up at one." She didn't joke about belligerent men complaining about the office opening late. Lizabeth hadn't recovered her sense of humor and didn't want to joke about their first meeting. William was parked in the garage, and it was a matter of a minute to retrieve the car. The silence between them was maddening as neither knew how to begin.

"How are you?" he finally asked.

"It's been an experience. It was terrifying." Her voice was flat and unemotional, and she didn't sound like the same person, the _Lizabeth_, he felt he knew. He used his producer's ears to listen then over the next hour, waiting to make sure that she was done speaking before asking a question or making a comment.

"I have a story to tell," she began. "I got very caught up in doing research and speculating about all of this news, these happenings in Merton. I had various theories, and that Sunday, I decided to do some fieldwork—and went out to look at the proverbial 'scenes of the crime.' But there were pieces that I didn't have, _information_, I didn't understand. I didn't know or hadn't figured out that Ryan had conspired with those two men." He glanced at her, but she was staring out the car window.

"I never figured my rotten cousin was capable of this. That _either _of my cousins was capable of what they did," he remarked.

"I think we never quite understand people. We may love a person, but we don't necessarily understand them or like them," she said. He wondered if she was considering her mother with that speech. "I had to hide, get away from the events of that day."

The restaurant, a locally-owned one, had been in business for as long as William could remember. Uncle Lewis would take him, Anne, and Ryan out to eat there as a treat. It stood waiting for them; the interior had been redecorated, the staff was different, but the menu appeared to be the same.

After they ordered, there was silence again as they stared down at their laps, attempting to find their conversation again. It was Lizabeth who took it up.

"I needed to hide away, forget for a time," she started where she had left off in the car. "At first, I needed to deny that what had happened _had_. It was…bad. Do you know how panicked I was when he tied me up, and I realized that I couldn't untie myself? You were gone, had hung up." William wanted to protest that he had hung up to call the police, but he didn't. "_Logically_, I knew help would come. But my brain couldn't believe that. I could only panic as I struggled with my bonds. I couldn't undo them. Couldn't budge them."

Her hand came up to the table, and she ran her fingertips across the tabletop. "Then I found some flame of strength. A way of calming myself and discovered that I had the patience to wait for help to arrive. I know it wasn't long, though it seemed forever. But when the police came, their guns were drawn as though _I_ was the criminal. It was awful."

Lizabeth was making a face. Her cheeks rose; her lips were a grimace. William thought he wouldn't be able to take a single bite of the food that they had ordered. "I'm sorry," he whispered and stared, stony-faced, fearing a smile would be the wrong response. "I'm sorry."

"Ryan spoke to me. He's a bit of a braggart." Her voice changed and became reflective. "He said it was payout day as he left. That it had been a long journey, and he felt this payout was a just reward. I could tell that he didn't feel that he had done anything wrong."

"Again, I'm sorry that you got caught up in this. I can't help but feel that this was _my_ fault," said William.

"I think it's _my _fault for always being nosy. Part of it was knowing you." He winced. William didn't like hearing that, but she continued. "There were bits and pieces that I wouldn't have known about had I _not_ known you. But other things I discovered simply because of my curiosity. It sparked, kept me going, even after you had gone."

His stomach lurched.

"I'm the one who discovered the Pemberley connections. I was curious about the bit-coin offering even before we were together. I discovered that Anne had named her company, Pemberley LLC. And when I saw that one of the biggest companies tied up in the Goulding investment had an address listed as Pemberley House, it led me to Ryan. So I drove by. They say that curiosity killed the cat." Her eyes were unfocused, mostly still staring down as she traced patterns on the tabletop with her fingers.

He didn't think Lizabeth realized how close to harm she had come. Maybe she _had _and was making more light of it now, he didn't know but didn't want to ask. Not yet, anyway.

"I still can't fathom all of this, or I don't understand it," William admitted. Their food arrived. Mostly he pushed it around on his plate and didn't eat.

"I had a long list of questions that I postulated as I went through all of this. Jason Jones has done a good job of answering many of them. Did you see that he gave me credit in one of his stories?"

"No," he answered, surprised.

She explained about differentiating between the different investors. "I came to the conclusion that if you were going to defraud people, you wouldn't hit up the same people for money. Jason agreed and included my research in his article, and gave me credit."

But the exuberance vanished as she continued, "there are facts or information that you and I know that I think even _Jason _doesn't know, facts that weren't relevant for the public."

"Such as?" William prompted.

"I believe that George Wickham knew that Mr. Goulding's 'son' was his grandson. _That's_ how he persuaded William Goulding to sell the land. After all these years, Mr. Goulding still wanted that secret buried even if it could be confirmed or revealed if someone merely looked at David's birth certificate."

"I think you're probably right, that it's not something to be made public," he agreed. The last time that they had discussed the topic came back to him. William hadn't been comfortable enough to share his own family's ties to that brewing mess. Before, he had reflected that it was self-preservation—preservation of his family's name and honor. But given everything that had happened, such an argument was moot now. "Lizabeth, I want to share something."

"Yes?" she was part eager, but also a little surprised. This had been her narrative so far, and William was interrupting.

"I made you a promise that I would share how I knew George Wickham. But I never shared the connection. I was _afraid _when we discussed it to reveal what I knew. So many things hit me, both memories and emotions, that I was afraid to tell you. But Dennis Wickham is Anne's father. My aunt had an affair with him. However, my uncle knew and loved Anne despite her parentage and raised her as his child." Lizabeth stared wide-eyed at him as he spoke. "Anne is George's older sister—half-sister."

"Wow!" Lizabeth sat back. "This is all so weird. Do you think your cousin knew?"

"My uncle told me that though _he_ knew, he begged me not to let the secret get out which I took to mean that he didn't want Anne to know," William began. "But I've since wondered if she hasn't always known. That there's been this resentment on Anne's part towards her mother for wanting to maintain this fiction of being the devoted wife of a beloved judge, when in fact, Catherine had an affair with a playboy (one that ended _his _marriage) and got pregnant."

"Wow," she said again. "Anne probably _did_ know. I think kids know or suspect, and figure these things out."

"I've spent a lot of time this past week wondering how what happens to us as children _affects _us, or _doesn't _affect us. I can't come up with any insight beyond the fact that each person is different," he mused.

"I think you're right. I sometimes think I should be more…_warped_ than I am. Or maybe I just don't know that I'm confused or prejudiced," she said, looking introspective suddenly.

"Perhaps we are all biased and a little deranged because of our upbringing," he said, trying for a little humor. "But that doesn't mean we choose to go to such extremes as my cousins."

"Ryan said he would be seeing Anne in Moscow," said Lizabeth.

William's fork clattered back against his plate. "He _did_ help her!" he cried, his voice rising. His gut tangled up again; he didn't think he would be able to eat again for days.

"So it seems," she responded to his pain. "It was just a brief comment, more boasting, but it seems each knew what the other was up to."

There was a long silence. Now the pair stared at each other and not at their plates.

"Did you know she invested _twice _in Goulding's property?" It was a tentative question from Lizabeth.

"Twice!" he exclaimed. She nodded. "More research of yours?" Part of William's brain thought that the two of them sounded like two people in a business meeting rather than two lovers discussing their feelings for each other. But were they going to talk about the two of them? He thought he had never been so confused with an ex-lover or friend or, _what were they_? He wasn't quite sure where they stood. Was he even a friend?

"Where did you go after you spoke to the police?" William finally braved a topic that had been weighing on him.

"I stayed with Mary."

"Who's Mary?" he asked.

"She's a queen." For the first time, he heard amusement in her voice.

"A queen?" he repeated.

"A lounge-lizard queen; she plays the piano at the hotel. She's a friend. I don't know what compelled me. Somehow, out of all the people I know, (and I even have family in town: my aunt and uncle), I thought that _she_ would be the best person to reach out to. To talk to, or not to talk to, because sometimes you don't want to talk or can't," she explained.

William knew the piano player. On Friday, she had been listening to his discussion with Charles and Jane; her amusement now made sense.

"I _did_ eventually go to see my parents, _that _was awful," Lizabeth made a face. "Inevitably, word would get to them about the incident. I'm sure my uncle or aunt would call and tell them. But so far, the story of my being involved, tied up, has largely been suppressed. For the first few days, the police withheld it as they searched for Ryan, Victor, and Josef. Once it became apparent that they had escaped, the fact that I had been rescued so quickly didn't matter, it was old news by then."

William braved asking, "how did the visit to your parents go?"

The face Lizabeth made indicated everything he needed to know without her having to tell him anything about the visit. "I spent three days with them. Let's just say that Mom ever being _right_ about harm befalling me means that she thinks I should be laminated, then encased in a protective steel cage, and kept in my former bedroom where she can safely pass me food through a slot in the door. Dad even expressed concern for the first two days and was distracted from sports—on the weekend! But I was finally able to assert my right to conduct my life as I choose and left yesterday." Having to share that much seemed to bring her to the verge of tears.

"How's the cat?" Changing topics seemed to be the best bet.

"Shirley has her. I just hope Shirley will give her back. I haven't gone over to pick her up or visit yet," Lizabeth explained. "I need to take care of myself right now." He admired her strength; Lizabeth was battling issues on several levels but appeared to be weathering them. Though appearances can be deceiving, and William didn't want to make assumptions. "Did Ryan search you?" He had to know.

"Yes. Quickly, but it must have been something he did for his job." She made a face. William, despite years of work in Hollywood, couldn't put a label on the emotion that flickered on her face just then.

"But he didn't find your phone?" This was another point he wanted clarification on.

"He must not date much." She gave William a small smile. He felt encouraged as he saw something of the old Lizabeth in it.

"_I_ must not date much as I can't imagine where you put your phone that he couldn't find it."

Lizabeth's smile turned into a wider one. "It almost begs not telling to keep you in suspense." She took a bite of food, chewed, and swallowed. "In my bra. It's where a lot of women put their phones. Women's clothing never has adequate pockets, and we make do."

He still had questions but didn't want to be the reason that she was late back to work. William had only eaten about a quarter of his meal. "We should leave soon to get you back," he remarked, "but who's your assistant?"

"She's not my assistant; she's probably my replacement," Lizabeth answered as she got ready to go.

"Have you given notice!" he exclaimed.

"I think I am done with the job. In some ways, it has been a little too tempting for someone like me; I bent the rules a few times and feel bad about doing so. But I want to…I am thinking of leaving Merton," she said.

William waited until they were outside the restaurant before he asked about her leaving. They weren't quite to the car yet, but she stopped to look at him.

"It was _horrible_, even if I was only tied up for fifteen minutes. When I first saw Ryan loading a car, had I known he was collaborating with the other two, I would have run back down the driveway, screaming. It wasn't until we spoke, and I realized what I had tangled myself up in, that I panicked." Lizabeth started crying. "It was _horrible_, and all I can think is, that it happened because I choose to live in Merton—that they're all connected."

He took two steps over to gather her up in his arms, and the dam burst then as a flood of tears made a rapid release. A hand came up to stroke her head as William attempted to soothe her. He felt like he was in unknown territory—_all_ of this was unfamiliar territory. But she snuggled up in his arms with a familiarity that made his heart hurt. He tightened his arms, not heeding anyone else in the parking lot as Lizabeth wept.

His hand stopped stroking her hair and rested against the crown of her head as her breathing slowed. Suddenly her arms wrapped tightly around his waist for a hug, then released their hold almost as quickly before she pulled back.

"Thank you. I'm still working all of this out. It will just take time," she said in a clipped tone. He felt she had retreated to being _detached_ Lizabeth again.

As they drove back to her office, William considered that Lizabeth had experienced so much of adult life drama in a short space of time. Most people get to ease into life, but she had to wrench herself free from her parent's control only to sort of fast-track through many of life's ups and downs in her short time in Merton. For all her 'innocence' she had totaled up a lot of experience.

"Want me to drop you off or walk you in?" he asked, parking in front of the office in those limited time-zone spaces.

Lizabeth looked beaten up when she turned to answer. "Are you staying in town?"

"I will stay if you want me to," he answered. "If I can be of help."

"I fear I am disrupting your work," she countered as if she feared to ask.

"Let me know if I can help," he said.

"I have a lot of thinking to do." Her face scrunched up as if she was about to cry again, but a large breath calmed her. "Sometimes, we need to start alone, and then we can fit people in, or figure out how to reach out and ask for help or support. That's what I did _last_ week. I'm sort of still at that point. I need to do a great deal of thinking—to talk to people when I have a question, but I just have to do it this way."

William wasn't convinced that wasn't a rejection, but when it came to Lizabeth, his experience with other women didn't apply. "I am always available for you, just call," he said. "Whatever you need."

"Thanks." She turned and got out, shutting the car door and waving awkwardly through the rolled-up window. He waved briefly and drove off.

* * *

Lydia had opened the office and was staring at the document entry screen with a blank marriage license form in front of her when Lizabeth returned. She only briefly glanced at Lizabeth before staring back at the screen.

"How come the fields on the screen don't follow the fields on the form _exactly_?" she asked, tapping the computer screen with a finger. Her nails weren't manicured but looked like she had nibbled them due to constant worry.

"Because the engineer who built the computer system did it _his _way, without thought to how _we_ would be entering the information," Lizabeth answered as she put away her purse and hung up her jacket.

"Bastard," said Lydia as she scrolled down, comparing the online form with the paper one.

The rest of the afternoon, Lizabeth spent checking the paper trails of all the documents that had come in while she had been out. The Judge had been supportive when she had called about what happened to her. Officially, she had to take a week without pay, but she just appreciated not being fired over not showing up or not calling that first day.

Looking back, she had made a lot of mistakes with this job and wondered that she hadn't been fired several times, what with tearing open the wall to get the cat, or using her work computer for personal research (even if it was her break time), or failing to call about unscheduled time off.

* * *

Lizabeth moved through her days with a low-level sense of panic that she couldn't shake. As if some nebulous bad man was going to jump out at her when she least expected it. She figured it was a reaction to her experience, even if it had been short, it was still traumatizing. Talking through the events of that day helped, but she was beginning to think that seeking some guidance from a psychologist might help her rid herself of her jumpiness. Her mother wouldn't approve of such a step; Dawn didn't 'believe' in therapy.

Judge Metcalfe had quickly found Lydia Wickham as a temporary replacement for Lizabeth during her week off, with Andrea Younge filling in the first two days (apparently she had helped out Mimi in the past when she had worked in the Recording Office). But now that Lizabeth was considering leaving town, she wondered if Lydia wouldn't want to stay on permanently. After all, George had only recently been released from jail. There was no telling what sort of consequences his very public arrest would have on his future employment. Lydia probably needed the job; she might still be supporting her mother.

Lizabeth was torn as running away was never a solution; she knew that. But Merton might have too many memories as she had tried to explain to William. She had family there, though she still questioned Uncle Edward and Aunt Chrissie's loyalties. And Merton was way too close to her mother. _Proximity_. She also thought that if she was closer to William, a relationship might work, but it would also be beneficial if she were _farther away_ from her mother to sever those cords.

Lizabeth did a lot of thinking, which sometimes became brooding at the weekend, but she imagined herself in many situations, almost as if she was playing a role. It seemed odd to consider her life as though she were an actress deciding on which part to perform on stage. But the next direction she took in life didn't feel like a calculated one. One she had worked hard for, as though there was this set of stepping stones leading her to a specific goal. Instead, she felt that her destination was a misty hilltop _way over there,_ and she wasn't quite sure what waited for her there once the mist cleared.

Perhaps that was what life was really like. It wasn't measured and ordered as much as her mother had insisted, despite attempting to control her life even down to earmarking a potential husband.

* * *

The idea of moving swirled more and more in her mind over the next few days, though Lizabeth stuck to a routine of work and home. She finally went to Shirley's house to retrieve Kitty. Worried that the cat would be upset and distant, Lizabeth was relieved that she only had to live through a half-hour of cold staring before the cat curled up on her lap.

Mary asked her to check-in, and she did, indicating she was _surviving_ even if she wasn't _thriving_ just then. Going to the hotel wasn't in her plans, so she didn't see the lounge lizard queen or Jane. But Charlene had called both the previous week and this one to ask about getting together, so Lizabeth agreed to meet for their usual lunch date.

Her friend hugged her when they met in front of the Hill Café. Lizabeth was a little stiff in bringing her arms around her friend to accept or return the hug. Theirs hadn't been an affectionate friendship, but she welcomed this small change in routine before they walked in to order lunch.

Once settled, Charlene stared rather forcefully at Lizabeth, who had begun to spoon her soup up. It was unnerving.

"Did you want to ask me about it? It's okay, I can talk," Lizabeth offered.

"I…I guess I've been so caught up with Lyle that even this crazy news didn't distract me until I read your name in the paper last week. I'm sorry. I don't think I've been a good friend."

"You _have_," said Lizabeth. "You had your focus and moving in with Lyle to occupy you. And I didn't want to share that William and I broke up." Charlene's eyes went big over _that_ news. "I distracted myself with local news as I attempted to get over him but got caught up thinking I was some sort of reporter. In going to 'crack the case,' I stumbled into a situation I shouldn't have witnessed and stayed instead of calling the police."

"I…I can't imagine." Charlene looked away, unable to process Lizabeth's pain. "How is it now, after?" Her eyes moved back though her head was slow to follow.

"I'm coping. It has made me jumpy when I never used to be. I'm just _coping_, but I am thinking about making some changes."

"What sort of changes?" Her friend finally settled back in her chair and began to eat.

"I think I need a new job; it's time to put my degree to good use and maybe move a little farther away from my mother. I can't even begin to explain how hysterical she was when I told her about this. I feared she would imprison me and never let me go."

"That would be like a repeat of what you went through, though," said Charlene, her spoon hovering.

"Yes. I need to minimize the stresses in my life."

"Moving away," her friend whispered as though she had never considered it. Lizabeth thought that Charlene wasn't a person who would up and move boldly across the country, though she had welcomed the chance to move in with her boyfriend.

"I heard from Mary that Jane might move to LA," Lizabeth ventured before taking a big bite of her sandwich.

"I thought she insisted that she would _never_ move," said Charlene. "Can't imagine it."

"All these crazy events have made Jane realize that bad things happen everywhere. If she's in love with Charles (or maybe if she just likes him a lot), why not take a chance and move to LA to be with him?"

"Are you thinking of LA, too?" her friend asked.

"I don't know. _Maybe_. That's a _tomorrow_ thought. _Today_ I need to finish a to-do list of all the projects I'm in the middle of at work and consider how to discover if I've missed anything with Lydia's training," said Lizabeth.

Talking about a subject made it either clear or brought to light questions. Or, in this case, bringing up a topic made her realize that part of her wanted to move as an excuse to try things again with William. She wasn't sure if that was a legitimate reason for moving and for once didn't want to ask her friend.

"Lydia seems young," said Charlene.

"She is, but Lydia is motivated. She may be the breadwinner of the family for some time," Lizabeth remarked as she began to bus her items.

"Really? I couldn't do that. I don't know if I could be in a relationship where we both didn't pull our share," murmured her friend, who looked thoughtful.

"Marriage changes things, maybe?" Lizabeth commented as she stood. "You weather the lows and don't walk away."

"Hmm." Charlene seemed to be considering how far she would go to support Lyle. But after Lizabeth said goodbye, she thought more about Lydia and George. Initially, she suspected that their marriage had been so George could help Lydia out financially. But now it had flipped, and _she _was working to support the two of them. That's what you did in a relationship, one based on love and trust. Could Lizabeth have that?

* * *

When she reached out to Jane Sweet on Friday during her lunch break, she got a curt response. While her friend answered, Jane indicated it was her one free weekend in between all those weddings at the hotel, and she was off to see Charles in LA.

"You're going down?" Lizabeth managed to ask.

"Yes. I'm testing the waters to see if my fears aren't ill-founded. Swing by the hotel on Monday or Tuesday, and we can talk." The line went dead.

Lizabeth was part annoyed and part jealous of her friend's news. She walked back to the office considering whether she could do the same thing right _then_—drive down to LA—but she had called things off with William. And he had expressed no interest in getting back together during their brief discussion that day at lunch. Perhaps he had moved on and had someone else?

But during her dead week, he had called her every day to ask how she was, _and_ could they meet in person? At the time, Lizabeth hadn't been capable of returning his calls. She had been wrapped up in the terror of her confinement, short though it was, up in the turret in Pemberley House. Her stomach still flipped whenever she recalled those minutes.

The air stilled as the memory of the coldness of the room, and the tightness of her bonds made her feel sick again. Lizabeth pushed down those memories and that icky feeling inside her gut and walked up to unlock the office doors. She was ten minutes early, but didn't bother to lock them again; the office could open early for the afternoon.

The unfinished business had been completed, and her to-do list for Lydia was done. She pulled out the 1900 map book and settled into the comfort of scanning maps for the remainder of the afternoon, letting Lydia handle anyone walking in, and answering questions if asked. Otherwise, her replacement could wing it; it's what Lizabeth had done from the beginning.

At home, after finishing her routine of chores, she pulled out her phone and stared at it for a long while, uncertain about this phone call. Finally, she tapped her contacts, found her selection, and called Caroline Bingley. Lizabeth had no concept of whether Caro would answer, whether she would remember her, even, or what she did on Friday nights.

But the phone was answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

Her gut twisted at her boldness. "Hi, Caroline. It's Lizabeth Bennet. We met…months ago."

"Lizabeth, how are you?" Caroline asked.

She wasn't sure if that was a sincere question, but answered, "_okay_. Life has been interesting. I realize it's weird for me to call out of the blue."

"Not at all. I meant it when I gave you my number. Is something bothering you? Something wrong?"

"No, yes. I need advice," Lizabeth explained.

"Advice?" Caroline's voice wasn't one that betrayed much emotion, but she _was _curious.

"I am thinking of looking for a new job, and I wondered if you had ideas?"

"Interesting." Lizabeth had hoped for a better response. But perhaps Caro needed to think about it? "Have you ever done any writing?" Caroline asked.

"Writing? Like storytelling? No," Lizabeth answered quickly. Then she thought about the research she had done for Jason. "I did help a reporter with some background research for a story."

"I've told William that we need a historian on our team to make sure that we don't get into historical hot water," Caroline remarked.

Lizabeth couldn't help gasping. Working for William or his production company hadn't been her intention. "I don't want to work for you!" she blurted out.

"Interesting," Caroline repeated.

"I just needed advice, ideas about a job. I'm a librarian by trade, so to speak. But I'm not sure where I should look. I don't think reading books to small kids is what I want to do. Maybe research? But I don't know who would hire me to look things up," Lizabeth explained.

"Have you considered acting?" Caro asked.

"What!" This conversation wasn't anything she had anticipated. "No, _never_. I just want a new job. I'm ready to move, in more ways than one. I want a new job, but I also want to move out of Merton. There are too many weird memories now."

"I get it," said Caroline. "I can ask around and brainstorm, see if I can figure out a good fit. But think about acting. Both William and I thought that you'd be good in front of the camera. The lens would love you."

"No! That would be, too…revealing," said Lizabeth. "I appreciate any help or advice." They hung up.

She curled up on the couch with Kitty wondering about acting. It seemed something most little girls dreamed of as a career at least once in their life, but hadn't ever been a dream she held.

Life at home had been dramatic enough that Lizabeth had never considered _acting_. Not that she was seriously considering it now, but having Caroline mention it made her file it away with all the other thoughts that swirled for dominance in her brain. It helped to stave off her always thinking of William.

* * *

A/N: Stay safe. COVID hit close these past two days. A friend lost a mother. A Twitter writer I follow lost her mother-in-law one night, then her mother the next day. Stay safe.

I tried to include every P&P character, but missed one. Anyone note who I forgot? _Besides_ the spouses of pairs (like Mr. Hill because of course it's Mrs. Hill who runs the cafe)? I'll reveal next chapter.


	31. Chapter 31

Looking at job listings all weekend energized Lizabeth. Some were in traditional library settings, alas didn't pay much, but still had the appeal of being in her field. Others were related, such as a university position that wanted someone with experience scanning documents to microfilm.

Emboldened, she began applying for _any positions_ that seemed appropriate even if she felt only partially qualified (something she wouldn't have done a year ago). Lizabeth threw in every bit of detail about the work she had done in the recording office and hoped someone would write her back.

But if they did contact her, she would need to travel to Los Angeles for an interview. But that was a thought for another day.

"You look chipper," said Doug as he held the door open for her that morning.

"I'm feeling more put together," Lizabeth admitted as she walked in and turned on the lights.

"Something good?"

She stopped to wait for the terminal to come online. "I'm taking charge."

"Good to hear. I worry about you, you know." He put his cup and the bag from the Hill Café on the desk then leaned against it. "I've been waiting for you to share, but you've been in your own bubble, and Lydia's been here. But just know that I'm concerned. I read everything in the paper about Spectre hoodwinking all those people and fleeing to Russia, and that guy being in on it, or maybe even being the _head_ of it, and _detaining_ you." Doug looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"It wasn't an adventure or romantic. It was terrifying," she said. "Not a story, like a happy-ending story. Definitely when the reality is something you have a hard time describing, but everyone wants to hear about it. In detail."

"I'm sorry." He held out his hand as though to shake hands. Lizabeth was momentarily confused by the gesture. "I'm in solidarity with you," Doug explained. "I don't need to hear the details, and I don't feel like I can hug you in sympathy, but I'm sorry for everything nasty that happened. You, out of everyone I know, didn't deserve it." She took his hand. It was warm and wrapped around hers in a firm handshake.

"Thanks," she smiled. "This means a lot." She squeezed his hand, maybe a little too hard in return.

Doug tapped her shoulder gently with his other hand. "I think the terminal is up. You can enter your magic password now."

"Oh! Right." She let go and turned, feeling happy even if there were a few tears in her eyes, and logged the public terminal onto the county system.

* * *

Mary didn't work Mondays, but Jane was in the bar when Lizabeth walked in. "How did it go?" she asked, curious and maybe a little confrontational. Lizabeth knew she came with an agenda, but the two women's lives seemed to be going along parallel lines.

"Traffic is a nightmare, but it went well, really well." Jane grinned, an expression that seemed uncharacteristic.

"So, you're thinking of moving?" Lizabeth prompted.

"Maybe. I don't know." _That_ sounded more like Jane. "How are _you_?" Open-ended questions were also a Jane specialty.

"Coping. Each day is a little easier," Lizabeth admitted.

"William mentioned your…_confinement_ before it was written up in the papers. It really bothered him. Charles and I spent a lot of time consoling him one night. He was upset about you being hurt and blamed himself. Said he'd come down to the bar to drown his sorrows, but we talked him out of drinking too much and just…talked to him." She paused to smile at her friend. "Maybe I'm not explaining this well. But William was concerned, really _worried_ about you because he hadn't been able to get a hold of you. It was tearing him up."

Lizabeth's stomach lurched. She hadn't been able to think beyond her own needs and hadn't considered that he cared so much that he was drowning his sorrows in drink. "I'm sorry my situation upset him so much. Sorry too, that I didn't call. At the time, I couldn't. It was tough. I was jittery, _panicky_, those first few days. Then I went home to see my parents, and that was another set of issues."

"Have you talked a lot to him since?" Jane asked.

"Just the once. We talked through the incident." Lizabeth blew out a small breath. "I need a name for it or need to figure out what to call it. 'My kidnapping' or 'being confined' or _what_?"

"You don't have to joke about it if you don't want to. Or even talk more about it. Is that why you came to the hotel?" Jane asked.

"No, not really," said Lizabeth. "I wanted to find out if you have decided to move to LA? And if you were going to move there, were you moving in with Charles, or do you want to get a place together?" She leaned down to put her head on her hand, with her elbow resting on the counter. That had been a bold set of questions.

"Wow. I still had it as a sort of back-burner decision, but you sound ready to go." Jane looked thoughtful. She was used to planning out the smallest details in her line of work, but Lizabeth wondered if she did the same when it came to her life. "Charles has a friend, who has a friend, who works at a hotel in Beverly Hills that may be looking for an event planner. I think I need to press him to get the contact information and see if this _might_ just work."

"I think you should." Lizabeth nodded. "If you're willing to make the leap."

"I think I am." A gleam sparkled in Jane's eyes. "I think I am."

* * *

Caroline hadn't been willing to scrap _Bella Montaña_ or to consider changing how they worked and pushing their schedule a year out.

"Nobody works that way," she asserted, cutting him off. "You can't keep up with trends."

"We do historical stuff," William replied.

"But we highlight current trends couched in history," Caroline quipped. "And we need a romantic lead for Charles." They set Mary King the task of writing the final episodes (she had finally settled on a name; Erin was too close to Aaron), and she had created a romantic entanglement for Charles to end the first season.

"I had an interesting phone call a while ago," Caro said one afternoon.

"Who is it this time?" William asked. "Some would-be actress who's already heard the rumors about our plans? The Webbs didn't call did then?"

"No, and since you will never guess, I will tell you outright. Lizabeth Bennet called me out of the blue." She smiled, gently, but with so much emotion behind it, he was momentarily stunned.

"Lizabeth!" William felt himself fall. It was the only way he could characterize his body (which was already seated), settling down even more into his chair as he stared back at her. He waited for Caroline to say 'just kidding,' though that wasn't her way.

"_Lizabeth_ called _you_?"

"Yes. She's job-hunting and wanted advice."

"I guess I hadn't believed her," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"What! Did you know?" Caro asked.

"She mentioned it. We talked, had lunch, right after Ryan fled, after that business with him tying her up. I had to make sure she was okay. But…I just…I don't know. I didn't think she meant it," said William.

"Has she _ever_ said anything that you didn't believe in the past?" The anger tinging her voice was palpable.

"I've fucked up again, haven't I? Thinking she's just saying things out of the top of her head like most people do here."

"I suppose you're waiting for her to call you too? Don't wait for a reason to come to you!" she yelled.

He didn't think it possible to disappear more into his chair, but he tried.

"I told you, _romance_. That means getting off your butt and doing a little wooing. When she moves down here and meets a totally slick fellow like Charles, and you see her everywhere around town on his arm, don't say I didn't warn you." Caro's voice was back under control.

"Is that all you're going to share?"

She seemed on the verge of speaking but bit her tongue. "Yes, that's all I'm going to say."

* * *

Over the next few days, Lizabeth came up with many excuses to call William—she could be honest and say she was job-hunting, or say she wanted to move to Southern California, or that she simply wished to see how he was. But she was never able to pick up the phone.

Jane texted practically every day to say she had talked to Charles, had some leads, and was enthusiastic about the idea of making the leap to LA.

_I've got this. I'm ready._ Had been Jane's last text message.

Lizabeth had been ready even before this point. And though she had the drive, she didn't have a job or a place to live. Nor would her savings last unless she found a job. But her worries were relieved when a state college called about their library position scanning books to microfilm. The pay was comparable to what she made at the recording office, and she jumped at the opportunity. In some ways, it was a step down as she had more responsibility where she was: essentially running the office by herself. But working at a college library meant the potential for advancement. At the John Muir Recording Office, there was nowhere to go.

She broke the news to her family gently. Scott's high school graduation was a noisy affair on the school's football field with family and friends sitting in the stands. The graduates filed in all decked out in cap and gown. Her cousin Tyler had flown home to support his little brother, so her aunt and uncle's focus was elsewhere.

The kids with surnames beginning with G had filed past to get their diplomas, so Lizabeth wouldn't be distracting her aunt's focus while her uncle was talking to Tyler.

"I wanted to share that I have news as well," Lizabeth began. Chrissie turned with a smile. She was a proud mother that day. "I have a job interview; it's a librarian position. It's not in Merton, however, but at a college down in Southern California."

Her aunt's face was instantly worried. "Southern California! So far! Lizabeth!" She put a hand out on her arm.

"Oh, dear. If you have such a reaction, I fear mother is going to have a heart attack." She took her aunt's hand in between her two. "I am well and truly able to care for myself, despite everyone thinking to the contrary. My friend Jane and I are to get a place together so that I won't be living by myself. It's _not_ an evil place. Millions of people live in Los Angeles and never come to any harm." She let go of Chrissie's hand. "I think I've had enough drama in my life that I can live comfortably for forty years without anything befalling me but ingrown toenails."

"I worry," said Chrissie Gardiner.

"You don't need to," Lizabeth asserted. "Do you worry nearly as much about Tyler and Scott? They'll both be living all the way across the country. I am years older, out of school, and financially independent."

Her aunt colored in embarrassment at her assertion that her worry had been due to Lizabeth being female—a little girl. No one wanted to let her grow up, it seemed.

"You have changed since coming to Merton. I think I need to do some changing, some house-cleaning of my own," said Chrissie. She smiled, a small gentle one. "Tell me about the job so I can run interference for you with Dawn."

"Thank you!" Lizabeth let out a rather loud breath, then shared all of her and Jane's plans for moving (including the fact that their new jobs were on opposite sides of Los Angeles, so they would both be forced to commute).

* * *

Charles was full of news about Jane moving close. While William congratulated his friend, he still brooded and wondered at his inability to decide what to do about Lizabeth. He _knew_ what he wanted to do, but couldn't find the strength to call her and ask her for a date. To be rejected again would be too much. He felt he had everything any woman would want, except for someone like Lizabeth. What could he offer her?

But many things happened, all in a short space of time. The family lawyer called. The government had seized Pemberley House, and William was without any leverage. The best-case scenario would be that they would auction the entire property, and he might be able to purchase it outright (though he would have to bet against other interested parties). Whether the government would _compensate_ him for his one-third share was still up in the air. It was a blow.

His aunt called, and he answered. It was a long conversation as she had much to share, but for the first time, the conclusion at the end of her ramblings wasn't for him to immediately attend her. While she had no resolution about her future or finances, Anne's flight seemed to have been a wake-up call for Catherine Deburg. Perhaps his one remaining relative had a modicum of sense when she was faced with _nothing_.

The call-backs for the role of Charles' love interest were to commence after the three-day weekend, on Tuesday. William hadn't been impressed with any of the actresses, but William Darcy Productions wasn't Hollywood, just streaming. They weren't going to get top-billed actresses.

Somehow, when he woke on Saturday morning, with a three-day weekend looming in front of him, instead of work, William saw opportunity. It wasn't as though he was driving to Merton to talk to Lizabeth about considering the role of Clara Cooper, their newest _Bella Montaña_ character. Nor was he driving to Merton to speak with his aunt or to see the chained-up gates of his family home. He was going to see Lizabeth in person to see what amends he could make.

He thought of her every day and dreamed of her at night. His affection and love for her had grown in the intervening time; it hadn't diminished by being apart. She really was like no other. William considered his initial wishes and desires when his eyes had first landed on her and been unable to move elsewhere. Lizabeth had been a bright, joyful woman, so unlike any he knew.

But he had not appreciated what he had, placing work before their relationship, and making assumptions about Lizabeth and her motivations. He had deserved to be dumped. But he was making amends now as he navigated the freeway, far more content than that last drive to Merton. For once, he had no plan, no to-do list beyond finding Lizabeth—to stare into her dark eyes—and letting her know how valuable she was to him.

When William pulled into her apartment complex, he still had no specific plan to woo her back. Somehow, appearing on her doorstep with flowers and chocolates would seem forced when he wasn't sure how she felt about him. But a stilted conversation over the phone wouldn't suffice; they needed to talk within proximity of each other even if they couldn't necessarily look the other in the eye because of embarrassment or anger. William was willing to let her feel however she wanted about him. But he wanted to see and hear every feeling in person.

Slamming the car door startled him from his internal monologue, and he looked across the parking lot at her building. The landscaping looked a little browner in the heat of May than it had back in early April. That damn cat and chasing her around for twenty or thirty minutes that day. His mind made a pleasant leap to their first night together, and he smiled, heartened about his mission. A path snaked around the building, and he followed it to the stairs that led up to her apartment.

William heard a door click; he looked over and watched Lizabeth's downstairs neighbor pull her door closed and lock it.

"Hello," she said, turning back. "You're that nice young man who borrowed spices."

"Hello, yes," he nodded. He couldn't recall her name. Typically, he was good with names as that was important in his line of work, but his brain was elsewhere.

"Coming to visit?" the older woman prompted.

"Yes…I haven't seen my friend for a while, thought I would pop by." He didn't need to explain himself, didn't need to stand and talk to her, but dashing up the stairs seemed rude.

"Do you like to cook?" The bags in her hand indicated that she was making a grocery store run, so food must be on her mind.

"I love to cook," William answered. He got pulled into a discussion of cuisine, arguing that there were multiple types, while Mrs. Annesley (he finally recalled her name) said there were truly only two, Western—meaning French—and Asian.

There was another small sound, and he didn't look around for its source. But then he heard footsteps on the stairs, and a slight shadow passed over the two of them. William looked up to see Lizabeth frozen in the middle of the stairs, staring down at him.

"William!" She sounded surprised, but not shocked. "You've come!"

"I should get on with my grocery shopping," said Mrs. Annesley, looking at the two of them.

"Thank you for the chat," he said, briefly turning to nod to the older woman.

When he turned back to Lizabeth, she had moved a few more steps down the staircase. "I'm glad you've come. I can't help but say that I'm glad you've come." She took a few more steps down to stand a foot above him.

"I'm sorry if I startled you. I didn't call first to let you know. I wasn't sure what my reception would be, I just knew I had to come—to see you," he explained

Lizabeth held out a hand, and he clasped hers, helping her off the step. "Maybe let us walk a little and talk," she suggested. Her apartment complex had walkways that wound around the many buildings. It would never occur to him to walk in such a place, but it provided a neutral territory for a conversation.

"I must be bold and tell you again that I'm _glad_ that you have come," Lizabeth repeated after they walked away from her building and were crossing the lawn that was the scene of cat-chasing months ago. "I have been thinking of calling you and sharing my news. I possibly have a new job, down near—or nearer—to you. I'm going to share a place with Jane. She's moving too, did you hear?" She turned her head to look at him; her hair spilled across a cheek, but as he firmly had a hold of one of her hands; the lock hung unhindered. A breeze picked it up and blew it across her chin.

With his free hand, he reached over to tug the errant lock free. "Charles is excited to have Jane near." He maneuvered himself in front of her. "I'm excited to hear that you will be near, but even if you weren't, I came intending to ask if we could try again. I messed up badly last time. I let things—work, my stupidity—get in the way. But I want to try again, regardless of what changes you've made. You don't need to move near me for us to try being together again. You're important to me. I didn't realize that until I screwed up and lost you. I've been missing you ever since that wretched phone call. I drove up here this morning fueled only by hope, but tell me if I have a chance?"

Lizabeth's dark eyes stared up at him during the whole of his speech. Her chin was tilted up; her neck angled so she could see him—it was the perfect angle for kissing. But he watched as what seemed like a small flame in her eyes came to life and blossomed as she listened to his speech. A smile crept up her cheeks.

"I want to try again. But I need you close, though that will create its own challenges. And I'm not expecting promises to be with me every night. I don't want you to make me promises you can't keep. But I want, most sincerely, to try again."

William swooped in to taste those lips; they were sweeter and more divine than he recalled. Her arms snaked around his waist as though she would never let him go. He pulled back, decided he wasn't done and had to kiss her once more before they continued walking.

"I fear I've not treated you well, and mean to make it up to you. I'm not sure that I know how to do romance, but we can both learn what the other needs, right?" he asked.

"Right. I don't _think_ that I'm too demanding," Lizabeth said, then snorted—a very un-genteel sound. "I _have_ been a spoiled, pampered child, but I believe that I've overcome much."

"Especially since you threw your mother out of your house," he said with a laugh.

"Perhaps I still am a little spoiled," she said, turning to gaze at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. He grabbed her and kissed her again for her impudence.

"I will kiss you every time you look at me like that!"

"I shall never be reformed!" Lizabeth asserted, grinning.

They walked to the far end of the complex, then circled back to the front where Lizabeth's building stood. "I came solely to see you, but I also have this idea of persuading you to act, be an actress in our production," William began.

"An actress! Everyone keeps telling me to act when I've never considered it," she argued.

He explained about the new writer, the updated story arc, and their need to hire a romantic lead. "We've already got Mandy playing Charles' kid sister, so we can't use her. So why not think about it?"

"But I have a job!" Lizabeth stopped to frown at him. William froze, wondering if he had just spoiled his chances with her by bringing up the subject too soon.

"Drop it. I'm sorry." He reached out to rub her arm a little awkwardly. After a few seconds, they walked on.

"So Charles is happy to have Jane near? No more driving north?" Lizabeth asked.

"Yes. I've heard quite a lot about it since we've had him reading with the actresses trying out for his love interest. In between, he waxes on about how happy he is. Apparently, Jane has done well and accepted a position at a hotel?"

"Yes, in Beverly Hills. My job is in Long Beach, so we've tentatively found a place that's sort of half-way between. We'll both have to commute. Not having a ten-minute commute is going to be eye-opening." She made a rude sound.

They reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to her apartment. He stopped when she put a hand on the railing as she started to climb.

"Do you want to come up?" Lizabeth asked. "Or do you have other plans, like to visit your aunt? Or something else?"

"I had no plans but to come to see you and persuade you to love me again," he said. That statement made her jump a little, though her hand on the railing kept her upright.

"You _love_ me?" Lizabeth asked.

"On the evening you called to dump me, you don't know how much you up-ended my world," William explained. "It is no excuse for taking you for granted, assuming you would patiently wait for me to call in a month when I was ready. But in losing you, I realized that I loved you."

"I think I love you too," she said. Her hand dropped, and the foot that rested on the first foot of the stairs fell to the pavement. Her other hand reached out to tug at his sleeve. William stepped forward to wrap an arm around her waist. She moved her hand up to his shoulder, and pulled on his neck, leaning in to kiss him. Her eagerness surprised him. Gone was the shy creature who hadn't wanted to make love with the lights on as she swirled her tongue in a teasing manner while her hands dropped down to rub at his chest and waist.

"Come up," Lizabeth said when they both needed air.

"Weren't you going out?" he asked, worried that things were happening too fast.

"I was out of cat food, that's all. Come up." She tugged at a sleeve, her eagerness obvious, though William thought that she was still a little embarrassed to talk about sex.

They stumbled up the steps, through the door, and into her room, trailing clothes as they went. William was careful and patient, focused on her pleasure. She was playful and welcoming. He couldn't think she'd slept with anyone else since they split, but maybe it was her new-found sense of self that showed up in the bedroom.

When she wrestled with him and pinned him down on his back, insisting she wanted to try it _that way_, William almost lost it. He thought as they hovered in that sleepy state of bliss afterward, that he loved this side of her.

* * *

Change is like a road sign or a hilltop or misty clouds in the distance at the end of a road. While Lizabeth could look down the road and _see_ it, she wasn't there yet. The red tape with the university took time once the offer was made. Signing a lease for an apartment and getting out of the old one took time. And Jane had the one colossal Jenkinson wedding at the hotel to oversee before she could untangle herself from her Merton ties.

But by July, Lizabeth and Jane had a rental van filled with boxes as they pulled up in front of their small duplex. It looked like a miniature box when viewed from the front, though the unit was long and narrow.

"I can't get used to bars on windows," Jane murmured as she stared at the side of the apartment.

"William assured us that this was a safe-enough neighborhood. LA has had more extremes, and not everything is as pretty as Merton. The development hasn't been as controlled," said Lizabeth.

They still locked the rental van before walking up the stairs to their unit, unlocking the front door, and stepping eagerly inside. Every wall screamed with white paint, though perhaps it helped to reflect light through the small windows (the building was probably fifty years old).

The living area was smaller than the one Lizabeth had in her old place; she and Jane were going to have to attempt a lot of trial and error with their furniture to see how it would fit. She now appreciated not purchasing items just for one place but thinking ahead for future installations.

There was a blocked-up fireplace that made a lovely focal point, and the two of them had already discussed how they wanted to decorate that space. Lizabeth's tiny dining room set was perfect for the small dining area as Jane had a huge antique table that she put in storage. They were going to use Jane's kitchen things. Lizabeth's white plates (ones her mother had chosen, insisting 'white goes with everything') had been packed off to a charity shop.

She gave her barely-used second mattress to her aunt and uncle (with Scott moving out, they could use it to replace his childhood bed). Currently, Mrs. Bennet wasn't speaking to Lizabeth, but Chrissie kept Lizabeth informed of what was going on in the Bennet family. It hurt that her mother couldn't be supportive of her decision to move. Dawn had her world view, and LA was an evil place. She also believed that daughters were helpless creatures who forever needed guidance.

Todd Bennet had helped by giving Lizabeth money for a deposit so she wouldn't be dipping into her savings, but she heard from him only in between sports events. Baseball's regular season plus the basketball finals (and his job) were enough to distract him.

The rooms were tiny, and they would have to share a bathroom. Neither bedroom was the master, though the back room was slightly larger.

"I think I have more stuff than you. Okay, if I take this room?" Jane asked. Lizabeth nodded, looking at the room in its current generic form with fake wood floors and aggressive white paint. They would need to do a lot to make it homey.

"I wonder how much time we will both spend here, with our jobs and our…men," said Lizabeth.

"I need my personal space," Jane began, stepping over to peer down from a window, taking a first look for what would become a common sight. "Charles can be too emotional. We're still working on the relationship. I don't think I would have moved here if it meant living with him." She turned to smile at Lizabeth.

"I'm happy with the man-part," Lizabeth remarked. "It's the job thing that worries me. I may never be home." She leaned against the doorframe and watched Jane cross to the other set of windows to check out _that_ view. "I hadn't realized when I applied, that the microfilm job was a night and weekend job. I like a nine to five schedule."

"Yes, but it gives you time to act!" Jane turned to grin.

"I still think this is some weird dream. But when Caroline called to say they still hadn't found the right candidate, and would I consider taking the role, everything sort of fell into place. I was flying down for my job interview, so I thought, 'why not audition?'"

"Charles says you're a natural," said Jane walking over. "And _Elizabeth Todd _as a stage name! It sounds alluring and elegant."

"I'm glad I'm using a stage name, otherwise Mom would really freak out, might try to kidnap me or something the next time she sees me."

Jane giggled.

"Shall we start to unload or wait for the guys to help?" asked Lizabeth.

"I think we need to let them do the heavy work, but _where_ are they?" Jane murmured.

"William only lives fifteen miles away; he has no excuse for being late," said Lizabeth, who turned and walked down the hallway back towards the front room as the two of them discussed plans for their new apartment. "Maybe Kitty is giving him a hard time and he can't leave. I wish our landlord had allowed pets, but I'm glad she loves William's place."

Jane merely grunted and tugged at the lid on a box as she started to unpack.

The end.

* * *

A/N: And bam! The Door closes on another story. More of a hopefully-ever-after. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. I know a few people weren't happy with my Elizabeth at first as she wasn't like book Elizabeth. But that was the point, to show how she grew from her experiences. Maybe she was a little too reflective as she analyzed all interactions that she had with people, but then she learned. And she also learned, somewhere along the line, to feel and express emotions.

Mrs. Reynolds is the character I forgot. Though I believe I simply couldn't figure out how to wrap her into the story. William had Uncle Lewis as his important adult when he was a child, so I couldn't quite bring her into this weird tale where everyone is familiar yet no one acts is exactly predictable ways.

_But Darcy wasn't super rich!_ No, he wasn't in this story. I've made him the son of a hedge-fund manager in previous modern stories; an easy thing to do, especially since I hear tons of tales from my husband who works for a company that makes high-end financial services software. As I mentioned previously, he's the one who gave me the story idea about bit-coin scams and Dark Web software. He shares some wild tales about what the super-rich do for fun. "I need 5 million to build a tennis court for my high school kid who is showing some talent so she can practice every day." _Those_ sorts of extravagances.

But in creating my 'card deck' for this story, I considered how I wanted to portray Darcy. If you read scholars who boil down P&P into elements and themes, etc., they often refer to key moments for each character. For Elizabeth, it's that 'I never knew myself' point when she realizes she's been blind and prejudiced.

But for Darcy, does being rich define him? (In my book, no.) Or is it really his selfish character and overcoming that prejudice? And that his love for Elizabeth and her love for him helps to correct it? This is the true Darcy and not the focus on his wealth.

Key passage:

"_I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."_

In the Regency world, the reward for self-realization (Austen's goal for a woman), was economic, hence Darcy is rich. Even Anne Eliot in Persuasion gets the now-rich Captain Wentworth.

But I figured in the modern world, we girls can own things and make money ourselves, so Darcy's 'worth' doesn't have to be wealth. And wealth is changing, which I detailed (his grandfather had land, his parents' generation cashed it out, his cousins 'made' there's-those in nefarious ways instead of getting a job like William).

But is there anything more wonderful than love as a reward? To be loved and valued and to feel safe in a relationship. All three are necessary.

Thanks for reading, SixThings.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N:

Thank you for all the reviews and lovely thoughts about this story. First off, I hope everyone is staying well as some states relax restrictions. We have some small relaxations here, but not much. I'm happy with staying at home. My local city has instituted a month-long program where they're blocking off some residential streets from traffic in an effort to get people out of the house more. I _have_ seen more people out walking.

I love that you felt connected to this story. Sorry if you feel it ends abruptly. Austen wraps P&P up in a bit of a hurry too: they resolve their differences, and then Mrs. Bennet gets _her_ happy day. I've thought about whether I can continue, but I wrote it when life was different.

I actually finished writing this in the fall. No COVID-19 then. My younger kid had left the nest for college, and the husband and I were enjoying a quiet house. Life was pretty sweet. Holidays and other writing projects and then a trip to Puerto Rico to help rebuild in February meant I didn't get to editing it for, _forever_. I'm not sure I have the same frame of mind to pick it back up again. I've got two young adults back home, finishing up their semesters, and worried about whether they will be _in_ (or is that at) school in September.

If anyone ELSE wants to write a sequel, feel free.

I also fear that what _I_ would write, wouldn't please. Writing is about conflict as I once explained to a 4-H writing project. "I got a new puppy; he has brown eyes and a shiny coat. The end." Isn't much of a story. But: "My new puppy ran through a hole in the fence, almost got hit by a car and disappeared. I couldn't find him for hours. That creepy kid from around the corner found him and brought him back. I discovered he likes dogs and maybe isn't so weird." Is a far _better_ story.

So I'd probably have Lizabeth leave William for this wanna-be actor who works as a barista because he has an 'in' on some new production because, of course, she's caught the acting bug after two seasons of _Bella Montana_. And Mama Bennet would make a scene, but Lizabeth and her new friend would get starring roles in this Amazon production, and …

You'd hate me. Plus Registry has clocked in at 152K words, which is 50% more than the average novel. (Though online works differently.)

Again, if someone wants to write a sequel, feel free.

The P&P World War II story is coming along. I have about 30K words written and scenes sketched out (which I don't often do—usually I just sit down and write). But it probably won't be until the fall that finish. Lots of twists in this one, sort of a thriller and a little Casablanca-ish too as I set it in late 1942, early 1943, so the dark days of the war. Fitting in these times of shelter-in-place and uncertainty.

Stay Safe,

SixThings


	33. Copyright

Copyright © 2013-2020 Anne Morris / Danromas Designs

All rights reserved. No portion of this creative work may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


End file.
